My First Cat

I guess I was about seven when I got my first cat. I got to pick him out of the litter and name him. I don’t think we knew he was going to grow into a big old Tom, so it’s kind of ironic that I named him Kitty Puss.

Upon bringing him home our dog, Happy, who was about six months old, proceeded to lick the poor kitten until he was absolutely soaking wet. Happy used to carry Kitty Puss around. He didn’t pick Kitty Puss up by the scruff of the neck. No…he put the cat’s whole head in his mouth and Kitty Puss let himself be carried around like that, perfectly calm, hanging limply from Happy’s mouth. They were best buds and often slept together.

Kitty Puss’s docile nature made him an excellent doll. I dressed him up in my Tiny Tears doll clothes and pushed him around in my doll carriage. The proof is in these two pictures taken when I was about eight years old.

I would also put my mother’s lipstick on his face and take it off with cold cream. He never struggled, never clawed, never bit, never even growled.

I loved that cat.

But we were not destined to have him for long. He was no more than three years old when he was poisoned. He got very sick and for several days wouldn’t eat. Then one day he drank a little milk and we thought he was getting better. That night we went to Gus and Charlotte’s for dinner. When we got back home I was the first one in the door, eager to see how my cat was doing. I will never forget seeing him stretched out on the floor, his mouth and eyes open….I knew. I screamed and hollered and cried and had to be comforted. I was devastated.

No cat has ever been able to take his place. That goes for Happy too, who lived twelve years. Although he tolerated all the other cats we had, he was never a friend to any of them the way he was a friend to Kitty Puss.

I’m sure the two are lying in dappled shade on the soft grass of the Elysian Fields enjoying each other’s company.