A couple of months ago our cat of 18 years, Denver, died of chronic kidney disease (yes, I know, it is ironic since I am a nephrologist).
My husband never wanted a cat. He tried to convince our almost 4 year old daughter that she wanted a puppy. Her highness was not amused, and we adopted The D from the local animal shelter on her birthday.
My husband, the dog guy, decided last week that we had been feline-free long enough. He missed a buddy with whom he could play, watch TV, curl up with a good book, or nap. So last weekend we found ourselves at a shelter outpost.
This 2 month old guy (who would fit in one hand) was found at an intersection in town. He had a cold when we got him, and he didn’t eat last Sunday. After a trip to the vet for fluids, and some higher calorie prescription food, he is the joy and the terror of our lives. He is inhaling canned and dry food. He likes to be chased. He would love to someday catch the laser pointer dot.
He thinks my laptop is a really big cat toy. Writing this post challenged me, both to get it done and to keep him from “writing” his own contribution.
It took several days to name the little beast. Ozzie was selected because it is the name of a Hall of Fame Cardinal shortstop, and short for Osiris of Eyptian lore (hey, they worshipped cats).
He has no pedigree or papers. His origination is “46th and Curtis.” Yet we know he is the greatest cat in the world. Next to Denver.