Post by orinocoflow on Feb 21, 2011 16:49:46 GMT -5
okay, this is a story that i just started writing today and i dont know yet if i want to go ahead with it or what. if i disappears after a while, dont be surprised.
hope you like it.
People say that cats do not understand what goes on around them the same way that people do. Well, I can say otherwise. Every single cat that lived in our apartment complex always came to our house no matter the weather, their condition, their character, anything; they all came to visit us at one point or another, even if just to walk through our bushes or sleep on our patio. Some even came to be petted and played with, others to eat, but they all came.
There was one that came every day to watch the squirrels on our balcony and occasionally chatter his teeth at them, but truly he was very sweet and good-natured, always loving it when I scratched him behind the ears.
Another came from across the apartment complex and would sit on our porch until we let him in. I will miss him because he died when I was about seven, but it was more than enough time to know and love him. He was a nice cat with a twin brother, but he was the one with the character. His brother was poisoned when he was only a few years old, but this cat was around for a long time after that, honestly a great one, with his dark brown fur and understanding, yellow eyes.
There were other cats, and two that I remember are Tomas and Simon. Tomas was a big tom with one huge ego and attitude. Black with a white belly and paws, green eyes, and long, white whiskers, he stayed in our house for a day or two before jumping out of the kitchen window to freedom, shredding the screen in the window in the process. Eventually, he went to another woman in the complex and lived with her for the rest of his life.
Simon was like Tomas’ brother in every way. He followed him around, looked up to him like a big brother, and was an absolute coward. Simon was tall, much bigger than Tomas, but he was scared of everything and was slow. Tomas was a challenge to catch, but Simon just walked into the house to the food and was astonished when I walked past him and closed the door. Otherwise, he did not mind, and though he was afraid of people at first, later he went on to leave our house as well and follow his “brother” to the other woman.
That woman also had two other cats, Zoë and Pneuma. Who chose her name, I don’t know, but Pneuma used to climb down from the second-story apartment balcony and come over to us, usually for a treat or just to hang around. She was like the mother of the bunch, keeping the two boys in line while arguing with Zoë over who was going to sit on the corner of the balcony. Zoë had an attitude as well, and I remember seeing Pneuma hanging on the side of the balcony swatting at Zoë when she did not want to move off of the spot. She died when I was nine.
There was one cat that came to us when I was about five or so. He was a gorgeous orange tabby with huge, orange-yellow eyes. He could not have been more than a few years old and obviously a house-cat, judging by the collar marks on his neck. I managed to lure him back to our house with a can of cat food and he followed willingly, purring the whole way and after eating, he claimed the old sofa chair in the corner of the living room. We named him Kota.
That night, he was sitting on the couch when I lay down beside him to watch TV, eating graham cookies. After a little while, a piece fell next to him and he ate it, and then looked up for more, so I gave him the rest of the cookie. A few feet away, my dad was going through the internet looking for ads people had put up about a missing tabby cat. Two couples came to our home that night, but each left, saying that he was not theirs.
Secretly, I was glad. I loved him already and did not want to let him go. I had always taken to animals, especially cats, and my parents were constantly laughing that first I would learn the names of the pets around the complex and then refer to the owners as their “mom” or “dad” instead of their real names. And here I was, sitting with an amazing cat that I wanted to have as my own, and my dad was trying to give him back.
I don’t remember how long he stayed with us, but I think it was around two months. He was not afraid of water and actually enjoyed baths, and afterwards he would be all soft and fluffy. He had claimed that sofa couch from the very beginning and if we ever needed to find him, we would know to first look behind it since that was his favorite place to hide. In truth, thinking back, I feels as though I only had a few days, maybe a week with him, but my parents say that he was with us for about two months. I don’t remember much about him, just snapshot memories of him behind that couch looking up at me, walking out from behind it sleepily, eating the new litter box granules we had been trying out, standing in the tub while we washed him, playing with him in the hallway, tossing him a tennis ball.
One day, I woke up and could not find him anywhere. As I had said, I was about five then, and when I asked my parents where he was, they said that they had taken him to the vet. When I asked when we were getting him back, they just said, “Soon.”
From that day on, I used to ask almost every day for the first couple weeks, sometimes even a few times each day, but then I stopped. Pretty soon afterwards, I realized that we weren’t getting him back, and I remember that we were once driving past a vet’s office and I half-heartedly asked that same question, knowing the answer but receiving the same “Soon” in reply.
It was not until about March or April of 2010 that I finally managed to ask what really happened to him. It turns out that he had had leukemia, and that is why his previous owners threw him out of the house; they did not want to pay the bills for a dying cat. We took care of him those last few months and he was the nicest cat I had ever know, maybe even more so than the two that I have now. I miss him a lot, and it is always sad to me how we only have a few photographs of him. But what is even more distressing is why such a sweet cat ended up in the streets. What it his fault that the doctor who gave him his vaccinations did not use a sterile needle, therefore giving him the disease? Why did they just kick him out, a cat that was not used to the streets and would not have survived long anyway? That is absolute cruelty, and the only thing I regret is that we never found out who his original owners were.
Now, I hardly ever bring him up in conversation, but we have moved two times since then. Each time my parents have tried to throw out that outrageous sofa couch. Each time I manage to persuade them not to. I never say why, but they know it is because of Kota. We still have his collar, a whisker, and a tuft of his fur in a box, and they will always stay there, as will that horrendous couch in the living room.
hope you like it.
Chapter One
The Cats
The Cats
People say that cats do not understand what goes on around them the same way that people do. Well, I can say otherwise. Every single cat that lived in our apartment complex always came to our house no matter the weather, their condition, their character, anything; they all came to visit us at one point or another, even if just to walk through our bushes or sleep on our patio. Some even came to be petted and played with, others to eat, but they all came.
There was one that came every day to watch the squirrels on our balcony and occasionally chatter his teeth at them, but truly he was very sweet and good-natured, always loving it when I scratched him behind the ears.
Another came from across the apartment complex and would sit on our porch until we let him in. I will miss him because he died when I was about seven, but it was more than enough time to know and love him. He was a nice cat with a twin brother, but he was the one with the character. His brother was poisoned when he was only a few years old, but this cat was around for a long time after that, honestly a great one, with his dark brown fur and understanding, yellow eyes.
There were other cats, and two that I remember are Tomas and Simon. Tomas was a big tom with one huge ego and attitude. Black with a white belly and paws, green eyes, and long, white whiskers, he stayed in our house for a day or two before jumping out of the kitchen window to freedom, shredding the screen in the window in the process. Eventually, he went to another woman in the complex and lived with her for the rest of his life.
Simon was like Tomas’ brother in every way. He followed him around, looked up to him like a big brother, and was an absolute coward. Simon was tall, much bigger than Tomas, but he was scared of everything and was slow. Tomas was a challenge to catch, but Simon just walked into the house to the food and was astonished when I walked past him and closed the door. Otherwise, he did not mind, and though he was afraid of people at first, later he went on to leave our house as well and follow his “brother” to the other woman.
That woman also had two other cats, Zoë and Pneuma. Who chose her name, I don’t know, but Pneuma used to climb down from the second-story apartment balcony and come over to us, usually for a treat or just to hang around. She was like the mother of the bunch, keeping the two boys in line while arguing with Zoë over who was going to sit on the corner of the balcony. Zoë had an attitude as well, and I remember seeing Pneuma hanging on the side of the balcony swatting at Zoë when she did not want to move off of the spot. She died when I was nine.
There was one cat that came to us when I was about five or so. He was a gorgeous orange tabby with huge, orange-yellow eyes. He could not have been more than a few years old and obviously a house-cat, judging by the collar marks on his neck. I managed to lure him back to our house with a can of cat food and he followed willingly, purring the whole way and after eating, he claimed the old sofa chair in the corner of the living room. We named him Kota.
That night, he was sitting on the couch when I lay down beside him to watch TV, eating graham cookies. After a little while, a piece fell next to him and he ate it, and then looked up for more, so I gave him the rest of the cookie. A few feet away, my dad was going through the internet looking for ads people had put up about a missing tabby cat. Two couples came to our home that night, but each left, saying that he was not theirs.
Secretly, I was glad. I loved him already and did not want to let him go. I had always taken to animals, especially cats, and my parents were constantly laughing that first I would learn the names of the pets around the complex and then refer to the owners as their “mom” or “dad” instead of their real names. And here I was, sitting with an amazing cat that I wanted to have as my own, and my dad was trying to give him back.
I don’t remember how long he stayed with us, but I think it was around two months. He was not afraid of water and actually enjoyed baths, and afterwards he would be all soft and fluffy. He had claimed that sofa couch from the very beginning and if we ever needed to find him, we would know to first look behind it since that was his favorite place to hide. In truth, thinking back, I feels as though I only had a few days, maybe a week with him, but my parents say that he was with us for about two months. I don’t remember much about him, just snapshot memories of him behind that couch looking up at me, walking out from behind it sleepily, eating the new litter box granules we had been trying out, standing in the tub while we washed him, playing with him in the hallway, tossing him a tennis ball.
One day, I woke up and could not find him anywhere. As I had said, I was about five then, and when I asked my parents where he was, they said that they had taken him to the vet. When I asked when we were getting him back, they just said, “Soon.”
From that day on, I used to ask almost every day for the first couple weeks, sometimes even a few times each day, but then I stopped. Pretty soon afterwards, I realized that we weren’t getting him back, and I remember that we were once driving past a vet’s office and I half-heartedly asked that same question, knowing the answer but receiving the same “Soon” in reply.
It was not until about March or April of 2010 that I finally managed to ask what really happened to him. It turns out that he had had leukemia, and that is why his previous owners threw him out of the house; they did not want to pay the bills for a dying cat. We took care of him those last few months and he was the nicest cat I had ever know, maybe even more so than the two that I have now. I miss him a lot, and it is always sad to me how we only have a few photographs of him. But what is even more distressing is why such a sweet cat ended up in the streets. What it his fault that the doctor who gave him his vaccinations did not use a sterile needle, therefore giving him the disease? Why did they just kick him out, a cat that was not used to the streets and would not have survived long anyway? That is absolute cruelty, and the only thing I regret is that we never found out who his original owners were.
Now, I hardly ever bring him up in conversation, but we have moved two times since then. Each time my parents have tried to throw out that outrageous sofa couch. Each time I manage to persuade them not to. I never say why, but they know it is because of Kota. We still have his collar, a whisker, and a tuft of his fur in a box, and they will always stay there, as will that horrendous couch in the living room.