![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jazzfishJohn is out of town this weekend, so the cats are lonely. Especially Ford, who needs a lot of attention.
I hear yowling from downstairs, and my first response is "It's okay, Tommy, we're up here."
Really, how do you put into words what someone means to you? Tommy was a member of the family for longer than I can comprehend. "Family" was Mom, Dad, Jamie, Tommy, and family was all that was guaranteed, everything else changed as soon as Dad got new orders. And given my antipathy towards Jamie and strong ambivalence towards my parents, Tommy was the family I had.
We picked him up in Germany, as a kitten, and brought him back overseas with us. I shudder to think how much that must have cost. Or how we afforded it on a captain's salary. I yelled at him for peeing on my dirty clothes. He hissed and bit when I picked him up. We got along pretty well. Until the stairs got too much for him he'd sleep on my bed, usually between my legs so I couldn't roll over. He ate ribbed Christmas ribbon ("cat ribbon") and photographs, and chased string if someone pulled it. We tried adding a second kitten to the house once but that didn't go over too well. He wasn't too fond of the dog, either.
Tommy wasn't much of a cuddly cat. He'd let you pet him for a few seconds and then he'd start purring. If you didn't take the hint, he'd bite you. On the other hand, I have distinct memories of sitting on my bed in high school, miserable about something or other, and having him rub against my legs.
He was fifteen when I left for college, and he didn't hear too well. At night he'd forget where he was sometimes, and yowl until he heard a friendly voice. Mom put in a stepstool so he could jump to the food bowl on top of the dryer in two hops.
The last time I saw him was late summer '98. Eighteen years old, positively ancient for a cat. He'd been losing weight and having kidney trouble, and I don't know how well he was seeing. He was so thin . . . I petted him, sitting on top of the dryer, and he purred. Not "I'm about to bite you" purring, but just enjoying the contact.
My parents had him put to sleep on Oct 12, 1998. I didn't go back to see him before they did. I didn't think I could take it.
Ford is sitting on my lap now. He doesn't seem to mind that he's gotten a little wet, or that I stop petting him to type every so often.
I hear yowling from downstairs, and my first response is "It's okay, Tommy, we're up here."
Really, how do you put into words what someone means to you? Tommy was a member of the family for longer than I can comprehend. "Family" was Mom, Dad, Jamie, Tommy, and family was all that was guaranteed, everything else changed as soon as Dad got new orders. And given my antipathy towards Jamie and strong ambivalence towards my parents, Tommy was the family I had.
We picked him up in Germany, as a kitten, and brought him back overseas with us. I shudder to think how much that must have cost. Or how we afforded it on a captain's salary. I yelled at him for peeing on my dirty clothes. He hissed and bit when I picked him up. We got along pretty well. Until the stairs got too much for him he'd sleep on my bed, usually between my legs so I couldn't roll over. He ate ribbed Christmas ribbon ("cat ribbon") and photographs, and chased string if someone pulled it. We tried adding a second kitten to the house once but that didn't go over too well. He wasn't too fond of the dog, either.
Tommy wasn't much of a cuddly cat. He'd let you pet him for a few seconds and then he'd start purring. If you didn't take the hint, he'd bite you. On the other hand, I have distinct memories of sitting on my bed in high school, miserable about something or other, and having him rub against my legs.
He was fifteen when I left for college, and he didn't hear too well. At night he'd forget where he was sometimes, and yowl until he heard a friendly voice. Mom put in a stepstool so he could jump to the food bowl on top of the dryer in two hops.
The last time I saw him was late summer '98. Eighteen years old, positively ancient for a cat. He'd been losing weight and having kidney trouble, and I don't know how well he was seeing. He was so thin . . . I petted him, sitting on top of the dryer, and he purred. Not "I'm about to bite you" purring, but just enjoying the contact.
My parents had him put to sleep on Oct 12, 1998. I didn't go back to see him before they did. I didn't think I could take it.
Ford is sitting on my lap now. He doesn't seem to mind that he's gotten a little wet, or that I stop petting him to type every so often.
