Happy birthday to my puffy boy: Thomas is three.
Today is Thomas's third birthday, making him irrevocably, and in even the eyes of the most generous vet, a cat. He does not believe this. He thinks he's still the world's most super-sized kitten, as evidenced by the way he draped across my shoulder and attacked my braid this morning. He is goofy, insouciant, and utterly shameless, willing to flop and trill in the most undignified manner if it means he gets a little extra attention.
He is perfect.
When I first brought him home, he was all legs and tail and mischief, and could easily fit in my backpack. Now he is legs and tail and mischief and mass, heavy enough that picking him up is something to be considered carefully before it is done. The small orange stripes on his muzzle give him a permanent Cheshire grin, a smile with a cat attached. I can't imagine life without him.
So happy birthday to my puffy boy, to the first boy-cat I've had since my beloved Seymour died when I was fourteen. You are the best of brats, and I shall love you always, and all I ask is that you live forever. Okay?
Okay.
He is perfect.
When I first brought him home, he was all legs and tail and mischief, and could easily fit in my backpack. Now he is legs and tail and mischief and mass, heavy enough that picking him up is something to be considered carefully before it is done. The small orange stripes on his muzzle give him a permanent Cheshire grin, a smile with a cat attached. I can't imagine life without him.
So happy birthday to my puffy boy, to the first boy-cat I've had since my beloved Seymour died when I was fourteen. You are the best of brats, and I shall love you always, and all I ask is that you live forever. Okay?
Okay.