First Pet

My parents are more cat people than dog people. My mom grew up on a farm where they always had cats in the barn as mousers, but my dad? Well, his dad was a dog person, and by dog person, I mean the man loved his dogs more than he loved his children, or his grand-children for that matter.

As a kid I distinctly remember my grandfather's dogs, he had two Great Danes named Shiva and Duba and one of them (I can never remember which one) tore into a second cousin's face and after that my father forbid me and my brother to be on the floor when the dogs were in the house. When we stayed there we had to sleep on the dog's bed (maybe not the best plan) which was elevated like a captain's sea bed and if my grandfather accidentally let the dogs in while we were there we had to sprint and jump up on the bed to be "out of reach" of the dogs. I have no idea how BEING ON THEIR BED made us out of their reach, but I was a kid and I did what I was told.

Anyway, my dad grew up around dogs but never had a strong desire to have one. Put simply, my parents had kids to take care of, they didn't want pets in the house, it was enough to take care of the kids. But then my sisters wanted a cat so my dad brought home one cat and then another when that cat ran off or we moved and it disappeared, anyway it was all before my time.

This is not a picture of my cat, but you can sort of get the gist of why black cats are so great.

One spring day when I was five years old, my dad brought home a kitten that was to be my cat. Maybe I had been begging for a cat for some time, I honestly don't remember, maybe my sister had negotiated this development on my behalf, I don't know. All I know is that one day my dad came into our tiny house and looked down at me and said, "Your cat just threw up in the car, go clean it up." Which I did, and while there I became acquainted with this tiny little black kitten with bright yellow eyes. Whoever says that black cats are bad luck has never had one. They are wonderful!

She lived in my closet and under my bed. For those of you who are not "cat people" let me tell you that cats are every bit as social as a dog, they just tend to limit that sociability to one person. I was my cat's person. She loved me and just me, she attacked every single member of my family at various times in her life.

I did not have a gift for naming pets as a young child so I called her Kitty because that's what she responded to. When asked, I still insist she named herself.

She wasn't spayed when we got her so by the time she reached adulthood she was pregnant. I just thought she was getting fat. One day she started howling and following me around everywhere I went and it kind of spooked me (I was 6, please, cut me some slack!) so I put her in the closet and just left her there. I told my mom about it and my mom freaked out. She built her a little nest out of a cardboard box and some old towels and then put that in the closet and seemed to calm down. I honestly had no clue what was going on. I was probably out riding my bike or climbing a tree or some such nonsense. All I know is that when I got home that night there were KITTENS in my CLOSET! And they were the cutest kittens the world has ever known!

I would like to go on the record as saying if there are people out there with hearts so hard that they can resist a wee kitten, I do not wish to know them. Kittens and puppies both are magical magical creatures.

Kitty had 3 kittens whom I promptly named (badly) Claudia, Barbie and Spike. Naturally, being a sucker for hard luck cases at an early age, I wanted to keep them all--in my closet-- FOREVER. My parents, being realistic and also prudent people said, "Not so much small fry." And once the kittens were weaned, Kitty was spayed and the kittens disappeared. I don't know if they were given away (I suspect at least Claudia (a wee white and grey striped kitten with blue eyes that could melt the heart of Ebeneezer Scrooge himself) was given away) or if they were left with the Humane Society for adoption. I still suspect that my older sister paid to have Kitty spayed by a local vet.

Life continued uneventful after that. We moved across the country and she moved with me. We tried leaving her with friends when we went on extended trips to visit family members but she always ran away and managed to find her way back to our house. She continued to be fed, watered and cared for by me. She continued to sleep in my bed.

At the ripe old age of 12 she vanished. I don't know what happened to her. I suspect that she knew she was wearing out and she went off to find somewhere to lay her bones. I suppose it's sentimental and foolish of me to admit that I cried sorely when she wouldn't come home. It was my first real experience with loss. With loving someone or something that is independent of you and that you can't control...and losing them to time, to circumstances, to...whatever you want to call it. She was a great cat.