Daniel's life
So, when I was sixteen, my mother decided that I needed a more cuddly, loving cat. Muffin wasn't exactly a people cat. Mom took me to the local ARF (Animal Rescue Fund) in Easthampton. I already knew what I wanted: an orange tabby kitten. There was one. A five-month-old male. He had the biggest paws I had ever seen on a kitten, and the littlest, scratchiest mew. We liked each other right away, although I have to say he was the shy, quiet type. On the way home, Mom and I discussed names, and I decided on "Daniel" without consciously realizing that the name of the road that the ARF was on was called Daniel's Hoe Road.
Daniel was a very easygoing cat right from the start. Settled in like he'd always belonged. Loved to antagonize Muffin, who hated him and screamed when he jumped on her. After I graduated high school and left for college, Daniel became my parents' cat. His shyness escalated, however, and, well, he became a coward. He didn't like strangers or even friends of my parents. His spot was under their bed. But he loved his "parents." Mom would take naps with him and scratch his belly and his "armpits." He snored when he slept. He gave hugs and kisses and head butts with the best of them. And he purred like an asthmatic motorboat. Oh, what a purr that was. His meows were scratchy and tiny, surprising for such a large beast.
Like most orange tabbies, Daniel grew huge. His appetite helped, and as he grew older he weighed in at a hefty 24 pounds. But he was happy, and fairly healthy. Whenever I visited, he rarely recognized me, but that was okay. He was my parents' cat, after all. Dad's nickname for him was "Danny Boy."
And of course, I have the song running through my head and I'll likely have it all day. I only know the first verse, though. I'll have to find and memorize the lyrics.
Mom and Dad will get another cat. An adult male probably. Once you've had a cat, it's hard to go without one.
My parents are extremely practical. Being atheists, they don't hold as much to the spiritual part, although they believe in ESP and ghosts, and Mom believed in my precognitive dream fully. They'll grieve deeply for their "buddy," their "big boy," their "guy," but they'll go back to ARF and adopt another cat, because it's the best thing to do. Never a replacement, naturally. But a cat's life will be saved as another cat's life ends.
We'll miss you, Danny Boy.
Sorry. I'm just very hollow right now. I probably sound hollow.
Daniel was a very easygoing cat right from the start. Settled in like he'd always belonged. Loved to antagonize Muffin, who hated him and screamed when he jumped on her. After I graduated high school and left for college, Daniel became my parents' cat. His shyness escalated, however, and, well, he became a coward. He didn't like strangers or even friends of my parents. His spot was under their bed. But he loved his "parents." Mom would take naps with him and scratch his belly and his "armpits." He snored when he slept. He gave hugs and kisses and head butts with the best of them. And he purred like an asthmatic motorboat. Oh, what a purr that was. His meows were scratchy and tiny, surprising for such a large beast.
Like most orange tabbies, Daniel grew huge. His appetite helped, and as he grew older he weighed in at a hefty 24 pounds. But he was happy, and fairly healthy. Whenever I visited, he rarely recognized me, but that was okay. He was my parents' cat, after all. Dad's nickname for him was "Danny Boy."
And of course, I have the song running through my head and I'll likely have it all day. I only know the first verse, though. I'll have to find and memorize the lyrics.
Mom and Dad will get another cat. An adult male probably. Once you've had a cat, it's hard to go without one.
My parents are extremely practical. Being atheists, they don't hold as much to the spiritual part, although they believe in ESP and ghosts, and Mom believed in my precognitive dream fully. They'll grieve deeply for their "buddy," their "big boy," their "guy," but they'll go back to ARF and adopt another cat, because it's the best thing to do. Never a replacement, naturally. But a cat's life will be saved as another cat's life ends.
We'll miss you, Danny Boy.
Sorry. I'm just very hollow right now. I probably sound hollow.