Nine years ago I fell in love with a little white ball of fluff with a big, black nose. I thought: That kitten looks like a teddy bear. I want that kitten.
That kitten did not want me.
Another one in the litter at the cat rescue we visited worked hard to gain our attention. He cuddled and purred and curled into our laps, mewing a plea for passage to a permanent home.
But this Teddy Bear? He turned up his little black nose at us and padded away, refusing our affections.
We compromised and adopted both kittens. They would be this blended family’s first official pets. The Twin Terrors — as we dubbed them since they were born on September 11 — were a constant source of joy and occasional frustration. The Teddy Bear bonded with the girls, particularly Girl from the West.
The cats were an interesting pair. We trained them to stay in our yard and rarely did they break the rule. Teddy, who remained aloof with adults, befriended the dog next door, forging a lifetime friendship in which one would arrive at the fence and patiently await the arrival of the other. They sniffed at one another and chased back and forth along the property line.
Three years ago we were heartbroken when the friendly brother suddenly went into liver failure and died. Teddy Bear paced the house, peering under furniture and behind curtains in a fruitless search for his pal.
Our remaining cat now goes through the same paces and clings to our side as we adjust to life without the Teddy Bear in our house. We lost him to a swift-moving cancer. Girl from the West’s graduation carries the memory of her beloved pet’s euthanasia only hours earlier.
I’ve written a lot here lately about pain. This might suggest life is grim for me. Not the case. It’s an even mix of joy and sorrow.
The essence of life.