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polychromatic) wrote2019-04-17 11:42 pm
polychromatic) wrote2019-04-17 11:42 pm
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the loves of my life: part i
I often say that my cats have been the great loves of my life.
My dad is really the one to be blamed for this - he has always been a cat enthusiast himself and had a habit of bringing them home after consulting exactly no one. And really, what young child was going to be anything but delighted at the prospect of a kitten? It was always going to be two-against-one; my poor mom never had a chance, allergies be damned! And besides, it's not like she hated cats. My parents had one - creatively named Meow-Meow - back when they lived in Hong Kong.
Now if there is one topic all three of us can wax poetic about with misty eyes, it's our cats. We have always been absolute suckers for them and the longest we have been without a cat was probably just under a year. Although I turned out to be the veterinarian of the family, I'd still say my dad takes the title of biggest cat-lover in the family, though I'm sure he'd deny it.
Bobo was our first official Canadian cat! My dad brought home this tiny orange kitten from who-knows-where and everyone proceeded to fall in love. I am assured she was the very cutest kitten in the world. She was apparently affectionate and generally just wanted to have contact with people as much as possible. When my parents went to bed she would be curled up at their feet, but by morning they would wake up to find her snuggled between them.
(Full disclosure: Bobo hated me. By all accounts she loved everyone else, but I was a terrible kindergartner who subscribed to the Elmyra Duff way of showing love to animals. I have distinct memories of making a leash out of my faux pearl necklaces for poor little Bobo and my parents basically grounding me forever for kind of almost strangling the cat. Also because she rightfully hated me, she scratched the ever-loving shit out of me and so my parents had her declawed. We all regretted it for the rest of her life and vowed to never do it again.)
When we moved across the country a year or so later, she road-tripped with us across Canada while sitting on the dashboard and soaking up that sweet, sweet sunshine. We arrived in Vancouver and lived with my grandparents for awhile, and when we moved out we were informed that was fine, but the cat was going to stay with them.
Yep, my grandparents stole our cat from us.
They absolutely adored Bobo and she had them wrapped around her paw. She would sit on the ledge of the bathtub and meow delicately until one of them rushed over to turn the tap on for her, and she would only drink the water if it was the right temperature and velocity. They would stay until she was finished and then would actually mop up the water that dripped on her face. She'd curl up with them, they'd talk to her and she would listen. She was also an adventurer and if unsupervised on the balcony, she would occasionally jump down and have fun on the town for 2-5 days, before she'd show up at the front door asking to be let in again.
When she was diagnosed with kidney disease the family actually went to a Chinese medicine shop and got herbs to brew medicine for her. Because it was super bitter and gross and Bobo was feisty if she wanted to be, it was a five person operation to catch her, wrap her in a towel, stuff her in a rice bag and then syringe this terrible medicine into her.
Bobo eventually passed away at the age of seven. We were all devastated, my grandparents especially so. I don't think they ever loved another cat the same way again.
After my grandparents claimed Bobo as their own, we were cat-less for a little while. But then one day after an impromptu trip to Costco, my mom and I came home to the distinctive sounds of kittens mewing.
Kittens. Two of them.
I raced up the stairs to the bathroom where my dad had stashed them while my mom contemplated the message my dad had left scrawled on a napkin. "Brought home two kittens. They have fleas. Give them a bath."
I can only imagine the look on my mom's face because I was already too busy squealing and cuddling flea-infested kittens by that point. I vaguely remember some mildly heated discussions, but there was never any question that they were staying. By the end of the night, my mom defiantly announced that if we were going to be keeping these kittens, she was going to be the one to cuddle them while we dried them off carefully with our blow dryers.
We were all in kitten-heaven for a few months, watching them chase each other around the house, discovering their distinct personalities. Socks (so creatively named by yours truly) was the gentler one of the two, generally well-behaved and tolerated cuddles. Checkers (named by my cousin, who formed an instant connection with him) was the clever, rambunctious, naughty one. He climbed curtains, climbed pant legs, and generally caused havoc wherever her went. I would go to sleep every night with Checkers sleeping at my feet and Socks curled up on my pillow.
Well, turns out I was horribly allergic to both cats, to the point where my parents reluctantly decided that it was probably in my best interest to re-home them. My cousin and uncle decided to take Checkers and I sobbed the entire car ride over to their townhouse. A reprise of the sobbing occurred when I came home from school one afternoon to find Socks gone - my dad had taken him to the local BCSPCA. We were fairly certain he would get adopted quickly - he was still a kitten and had such a lovely, placid personality - but my dad visited every day until that happened just to be sure.
My dad is really the one to be blamed for this - he has always been a cat enthusiast himself and had a habit of bringing them home after consulting exactly no one. And really, what young child was going to be anything but delighted at the prospect of a kitten? It was always going to be two-against-one; my poor mom never had a chance, allergies be damned! And besides, it's not like she hated cats. My parents had one - creatively named Meow-Meow - back when they lived in Hong Kong.
Now if there is one topic all three of us can wax poetic about with misty eyes, it's our cats. We have always been absolute suckers for them and the longest we have been without a cat was probably just under a year. Although I turned out to be the veterinarian of the family, I'd still say my dad takes the title of biggest cat-lover in the family, though I'm sure he'd deny it.
Bobo
(Full disclosure: Bobo hated me. By all accounts she loved everyone else, but I was a terrible kindergartner who subscribed to the Elmyra Duff way of showing love to animals. I have distinct memories of making a leash out of my faux pearl necklaces for poor little Bobo and my parents basically grounding me forever for kind of almost strangling the cat. Also because she rightfully hated me, she scratched the ever-loving shit out of me and so my parents had her declawed. We all regretted it for the rest of her life and vowed to never do it again.)
When we moved across the country a year or so later, she road-tripped with us across Canada while sitting on the dashboard and soaking up that sweet, sweet sunshine. We arrived in Vancouver and lived with my grandparents for awhile, and when we moved out we were informed that was fine, but the cat was going to stay with them.
Yep, my grandparents stole our cat from us.
They absolutely adored Bobo and she had them wrapped around her paw. She would sit on the ledge of the bathtub and meow delicately until one of them rushed over to turn the tap on for her, and she would only drink the water if it was the right temperature and velocity. They would stay until she was finished and then would actually mop up the water that dripped on her face. She'd curl up with them, they'd talk to her and she would listen. She was also an adventurer and if unsupervised on the balcony, she would occasionally jump down and have fun on the town for 2-5 days, before she'd show up at the front door asking to be let in again.
When she was diagnosed with kidney disease the family actually went to a Chinese medicine shop and got herbs to brew medicine for her. Because it was super bitter and gross and Bobo was feisty if she wanted to be, it was a five person operation to catch her, wrap her in a towel, stuff her in a rice bag and then syringe this terrible medicine into her.
Bobo eventually passed away at the age of seven. We were all devastated, my grandparents especially so. I don't think they ever loved another cat the same way again.
Socks and Checkers
Kittens. Two of them.
I raced up the stairs to the bathroom where my dad had stashed them while my mom contemplated the message my dad had left scrawled on a napkin. "Brought home two kittens. They have fleas. Give them a bath."
I can only imagine the look on my mom's face because I was already too busy squealing and cuddling flea-infested kittens by that point. I vaguely remember some mildly heated discussions, but there was never any question that they were staying. By the end of the night, my mom defiantly announced that if we were going to be keeping these kittens, she was going to be the one to cuddle them while we dried them off carefully with our blow dryers.
We were all in kitten-heaven for a few months, watching them chase each other around the house, discovering their distinct personalities. Socks (so creatively named by yours truly) was the gentler one of the two, generally well-behaved and tolerated cuddles. Checkers (named by my cousin, who formed an instant connection with him) was the clever, rambunctious, naughty one. He climbed curtains, climbed pant legs, and generally caused havoc wherever her went. I would go to sleep every night with Checkers sleeping at my feet and Socks curled up on my pillow.
Well, turns out I was horribly allergic to both cats, to the point where my parents reluctantly decided that it was probably in my best interest to re-home them. My cousin and uncle decided to take Checkers and I sobbed the entire car ride over to their townhouse. A reprise of the sobbing occurred when I came home from school one afternoon to find Socks gone - my dad had taken him to the local BCSPCA. We were fairly certain he would get adopted quickly - he was still a kitten and had such a lovely, placid personality - but my dad visited every day until that happened just to be sure.