Ode to a Damn Fine cat.
He would quietly creep up to you and rub his side against your leg, step between and rub up against your other leg. He was out to steal your heart. He usually won. His name was Bandit.
He was infuriating in that he had, just had, to walk in front of you at his own speed, in an almost-regal manner. Perhaps he was trying to say, "Hey, the Egyptians worshipped us. This is the way it should be--cats leading humans". He could be counted on to walk on top you at 4 in morning, up and down as you slept. Sometimes, as he would jump off, he would plant those back claws into your flank for traction. Perhaps those were intended as reminders as to who was boss. He would hack and heave and leave wonderful messes for me to clean up our million-times bespotted carpet. Cleaning out the litterbox was always an olfactory joy. Leaving flowers on the dining table was an open invitation to him to chew on them and knock over the vase. On that subject, he was consistently incapable of learning that he was not supposed to be up on the dining room table. The Christmas tree was just another playtoy, to be climbed up and ornaments swatted at and off.
But he was also a tender and very loving cat. He would climb up into your lap, twirl around once, and settle into it, and keep that lap warm on a cold winter's day. He would curl up next to his mistress during the nights as if this was the only place he would ever want to be. He would nudge your free hand for a back rub or a scratch behind the ear. He would engage in mock fights with his "brother" Munchkin, the dog. He would look so funny and so thoughtful as he sat on his cat tree, looking out the front window, checking out the world as it went by. He was the perfect reading companion, laying there by your side as you read your book or magazine.
He was Bandit, who died 8 years too young on May 25th, 2004. I could never have had a better cat. A damn fine cat.
He was infuriating in that he had, just had, to walk in front of you at his own speed, in an almost-regal manner. Perhaps he was trying to say, "Hey, the Egyptians worshipped us. This is the way it should be--cats leading humans". He could be counted on to walk on top you at 4 in morning, up and down as you slept. Sometimes, as he would jump off, he would plant those back claws into your flank for traction. Perhaps those were intended as reminders as to who was boss. He would hack and heave and leave wonderful messes for me to clean up our million-times bespotted carpet. Cleaning out the litterbox was always an olfactory joy. Leaving flowers on the dining table was an open invitation to him to chew on them and knock over the vase. On that subject, he was consistently incapable of learning that he was not supposed to be up on the dining room table. The Christmas tree was just another playtoy, to be climbed up and ornaments swatted at and off.
But he was also a tender and very loving cat. He would climb up into your lap, twirl around once, and settle into it, and keep that lap warm on a cold winter's day. He would curl up next to his mistress during the nights as if this was the only place he would ever want to be. He would nudge your free hand for a back rub or a scratch behind the ear. He would engage in mock fights with his "brother" Munchkin, the dog. He would look so funny and so thoughtful as he sat on his cat tree, looking out the front window, checking out the world as it went by. He was the perfect reading companion, laying there by your side as you read your book or magazine.
He was Bandit, who died 8 years too young on May 25th, 2004. I could never have had a better cat. A damn fine cat.