For someone who is not a Cat Person, I’ve had an awful lot of cats, beginning with Fluffy and ending with Stimpy, both grays.
Fluffy was my childhood cat, unremarkable aside from one memorable moment.
My sister Rosemary and I were in our living room when we heard someone shout, “Rosemary!”
We looked at each other. No one else was home.
“Rosemary!” came the plaintive call.
Suddenly, Fluffy walked in from the dining room.
“Rosemary!” our cat insisted.
Rosemary, with remarkable poise but obvious dread, answered, “…what?”
Whereupon, Fluffy vomited. And never spoke again.
Stimpy was of relatively recent vintage, although it has been for eight years or so since, as they say, she crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
Stimpy had lived with me in Washington DC for 21-some years before my son Zack offered to have her go live with him in California.
The airline required that Stimpy have some shots, so I brought her to a veterinarian — her first such visit since she’d been spayed some 19 year prior.
“Are you aware,” the vet asked after a cursory examination, “that this cat has no teeth?”
She had me there. In fact, for years I had been feeding Stimpy hard boxed cat food (Little Friskies). In retrospect, I can only imagine Stimpy’s frustration, softening those pebble-like pellets with water she lapped up like a Bedouin.
Stimpy thrived in California, feasting on canned food for another four years. Or so. We kind of lost touch.