|Me and my friend Big Bog's cat, Stormy|
I used to have my own cat once. His name was Bobby. He was a stray cat that I adopted when I was a ten or eleven years old. My family lived in a second story apartment above the offices of Gindy Manufacturing Corporation in Downingtown, Pennsylvania. We lived next to the trailer manufacturing plant.
I don't remember exactly how Bobby came into my life. I think he was a kitten of a feral cat that just appeared at our doorstep one day.
I looked forward to seeing Bobby everyday when I came home from elementary school. He would curl up and lay in my lap while I watched TV. I would carry him around. He loved me and I loved him.
Then one day Bobby wasn't there any more. I asked my Mother if she had seen Bobby. She said "Oh, Pop took him to the SPCA. He was peeing on the door so he got rid of him."
That was my dad. No explanation. No consideration of my feelings. None. Maybe that's why I'm gay. I was looking for the man who would be kind to me.
How ironic then that I hooked up with Bill, my partner in life for these past forty-six years. In every way Bill treats me like a prince. But he doesn't like cats. In fact he's bragged that as a kid he used to tie tin cans to their tails. Whenever he tells that story to friends and neighbors, I always get on his case for his thoughtless cruelty. He just laughs it off.
Over the years I've encountered many cats. Many belong to my friends. Whenever I visit my friends who have cats, I take that opportunity to get my Cat Fix by petting and praising them. The feline creatures seem to understand.
I love cats.
One day I will rescue a kitty (or two) from the SPCA to make up for Bobby.
|Me and Bobby 1953|