Up in Boston for Passover -- Miss My Kitty
Here at my folks for Passover for the first time in about 13 years. I have celebrated every passover in the interim with my parents, but we have not actually been here at my parent's place in Boston.
I would say we are much out of practice and much changed.
And I miss my kitty, Fluffball. He was good cat, best of kitties. He was a rescue, but he looked like a classic blue Turkish Angora, down to the distinctive neck ruff and the pouffy tail. He was a large cat, about 15+ pounds and all of it muscle. He always walked with immense dignity, tail high in the air, Lord and Master of the neighborhood. He not only hunted birds and squirrels, but protected the yard against invading raccoons and thought nothing of taking on dogs several times his weight.
Even in his sunset years, when he was no longer really able to chase prey and the back yard teemed with birds and squirrels, Fluffball kept his dignity. He would lie there on the back stoop, blinking in the Sun, giving the impression that of course
at any time he could get up and chase out the interlopers -- he just had more important things to do at the moment, like nap in the Sun.
When I was going through my sullen, silent silent teen stage, there where times when I would have sworn that Fluffball was the only friend I had in the world (although I recognize now this would have been teenage melodrama). Whenever I needed him, he was there. And all he wanted in exchange was a pouch of Tender Vittles in the morning and half the bed every night. He got very good at nudging me just enough so I would move an inch or so without waking up, until I would wake up at 2 a.m. twisted into a pretzel. But that was OK, because he was my kitty.
After I went to college, coming home to Fluffball was always one of the highlights of returning home. Because no matter how long I was away, he was always my kitty. Everytime I was home he would hop into bed at night, and sometime around 2 a.m. I would wake up twisted around a furry bundle of purrr.
Which I suppose is why he despised Becky after we got married, and sharing the bed was no longer an option (at least not on an exclusive basis). She was the one person Fluffball would growl at on sight. Mind you, he had known Becky for years before we got married and was just fine with her. But after we got married he never had a civil word for her again. It was only hisses and claws for that hussy who stole his Daddy away. After all, he was my kitty -- and I was supposed to be his human.
Fluffball lived to a ripe old age of 21 -- despite being hit by a car when he was 19. The last time I saw him was Passover 2000. And I still miss my kitty.