When we moved to our house in the country, we inherited a feral kitten (the previous owners said he was born on 06/06/06). We spent two weeks coaxing him onto the front porch, and quickly realized that he had extra toes, and extra fangs that poked out of his mouth. He came inside, and he and Sophie, the boy cat with a girl's name, fell in love. Chaplin was a little retarded, and fell down a lot. The other feral cats in the neighborhood sensed his weakness, and picked on him. Sophie is the ninja assassin of the feline world. He can jump five feet in the air, from four paws flat on the ground. I tried to give him a flea bath one time, and he damn near pulled my arms from their sockets, trying to jump away from me. He stalks and kills things every day. He protected Chaplin, and shared his prey with him.
Chaplin had a drooling problem, and he would eat until his sides bulged and he had to pass out from the exhaustion. He couldn't take a hint, and even if you put him in the floor twenty times, he'd still try to climb right back in your lap. We still liked him. He had this cute way of wrasslin' with Sophie, and unleashing blood curdling screams while he did it.
He died a couple of weeks ago. I don't know how, but I figure it was something dumb, like trying to swallow a rock. I buried him in the back yard, under the tiny tree that he liked to climb. But Sophie still seems to be wrasslin' with him. I can't decide whether I have a ghost cat, or a mentally-ill ninja cat. I'm worried either way.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment