Let me tell you about the cat.
Twelve years ago, we decided to get a cat. It was townhouse-dwelling at the time, so a cat was a good choice, petwise. Down to the humane society to rescue some poor animal from a fate very much like death.
The cages were full. Death row was doing a booming business. But which poor soul to save?
We walked down the aisles back and forth, pausing in front of each cage door. The card on the cage gave a little background (if known) on each inmate. There was the large large cat who filled his cage.
"A bit aggressive and tempermental" read the card.
Hmmmmmm. Maybe he needs to stay where he is. Another wasn't any good with kids (or anyone else probably).
It came down to two. One was a black and white, the other a gray cat. I liked the gray cat. He seemed to be friendly. He had a beautiful coat. But so did the black and white.
How to decide? Didn't have to in the end. The cat picked us with a mewling wail that clearly said "You are mine. Get me out of here."
Black and white it is. No name. This was a stray found on the streets. We had a fancy new cat carrier to fetch him home in, but for some strange and ultimately foolish reason, the humane society insisted that we used the cardboard box carriers they supply. OK. Pay the money and load the bouncing, snarling box o' cat in the car for the short ride home.
There were nasty noises coming from the box. And it was moving around an awful lot. An evil orange eye could be seen glaring out of the (unfortunate) gap in the top of the box. First the eye stared, spitting displeasure, and then a claw. Just the tiniest claw wedged up in that gap. Then the paw and the claw. Then the arm reaching up, flexing, shredding the cardboard. Then, the eye again, but not just the eye, the head started to appear.
"Oh my god, he's busting out! Hurry. Let's get home before he gets out!"
Too late.
He managed to get most of his body out of the box before I could slide to a stop and bundle him inside, where he took a chunk out of my chest as he sprung off me and ran for the basement. Home sweet home, you miserable beast.
He stayed in the basement for a couple of days. He had a litter box and food brought to him, but he just stayed behind the washing machine most of the time. Finally, he decided that there was something going on upstairs he just had to know about. Up he slunk. Belly down, moving very slowly.
It was time we named this cat.His slow pace was a hint. There was another hint too. It seems his upset life made him a tad flatulent. Not a good thing in a cat. These two things combined made it obvious that his name was Flash.
And so it is.
Flash settled in quickly. He was banned from the bedroom by a closed door. That didn't stop Flash. Nope. He would scratch and yowl all night. It wasn't long before we abandoned that tack.
Next, be was banned from the bed on pain of water pistol. He didn't care. The bed was much more attractive than the discomfort of a water pistol. The bed got quite wet before that attempt at discipline was abandoned.
So Flash now had the run of the house. Literally. From the living room, the stairs went up along the side wall, turning ninety degrees at the bottom and then again at the top. Flash, who was more dog than cat, would fetch his small rubber ball when you tossed it up the stairs. He would tear up as fast as he could, bat the ball down the stairs, and then fly back down after it, usually slamming full body into the half-wall at the bottom. He'd then pick up the ball, trot over, and drop it at my feet, ready for the next go.
When the big move to the new house came, Flash was not happy. He's not happy when a piece of furniture gets moved, so an entire household moving freaked him out quite a bit. He ended up sitting in the corner of the new kitchen counter behind a box for a full day. But soon, he discovered that all his stuff had come along too, so it wasn't all that bad.
Flash settled in and welcomed the new dog (Farley) with open claws (although that didn't seem to upset him as much as the move). Farley was well under control until the two animals got to know each other. Flash simply torments the dog. He takes swipes at Farley's back if he walks by. He paces in the door to the room with Farley's food bowls so the dog has to stand guard half the night. All in all it's probably a typical cat-dog relationship.
Eight years ago, the medical problems started. Flash was diagnosed with a heart murmur. We could try to give him aspirin everyday to help. He was given six months, at the outside. The aspirin was not liked. He hated it. So instead of making his life miserable for a few months more life, we decided not to bother.
That was eight years ago. He's still going strong, squishy heart and all. Occasionally, if he runs too hard, or gets worked up about something, he'll have a spell. He goes down into a crouch and makes the most godawful sounds, rocking slowly back and forth on his haunches. He'll settle down after a few minutes and then as soon as he can walk again, he goes downstairs and eats. Funny cat. He's quite aware of his condition apparently. While he still wants to play, he doesn't. He'll chase a ball of paper for a few minutes or bat around a catnip toy, but only for a short while and then he settles down so he doesn't wear himself out.
A few months ago now, he was diagnosed with further heart problems. Again, there's nothing that can be done, and he was given six months, at the outside. I don't believe it. I'm convinced he'll outlive me.
Flash is a great cat. A bit destructive. A bit pushy. Very set in his ways. But on the whole, if I'm going to have a cat, I'll take Flash any day.
And now it's April 16, 2007.
Flash has left us.
Goodbye my friend. Be at peace.
Say hello to Farley when you see him.
