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My First Cat Timothy

Mom and Dad brought the first pets into our home. Timothy was your typical tabby-striped cat. I named him after my cousin, Tim Smith.

Timothy was neutered, laid back, imperturbable, and decidedly perfect for a first pet—when treated right! In fact, he was even perfect for a pet when perturbed, because he never offered to bite, no matter how clueless his captors were.

My two sisters—Laurel, three years older; Jackie, three years younger—weren’t as tuned in to critter sensibilities and desires as I was. Jackie, especially, tended to want to “own” and “control” our pets. If you’ve ever shared your life with a cat, you know how well that usually turned out. No one “owns” a cat—and the few who can control them without getting lacerated are few and far between. I’m one of them.

When cornered and “captured”, Timothy would grumble, then growl louder, trying his best to back pedal out of the offender’s arms.

Next, his vocalizations would escalate to a hissed-off shriek; his tail would lash furiously and—if that didn’t work—he’d launch himself from the constraining arms and go hide somewhere. Sometimes his launch resulted in puncture wounds, but the cat wasn’t considered the one at fault.

If the offender cried for justice, Mom would ask, “What did you do to Timothy to make him behave that way?” Mom had Timothy’s back. She knew he was the one least likely to have behaved inappropriately.

He was the perfect kid trainer. His actions showed very clearly exactly what he was thinking:

“Nope, kid. Nope. Nope. Nope. You don’t get nope? Okay, I’m outta here. See you later!”

Timothy made his way into one of my earliest animal poems, so now he’s immortalized…as well he should be. Here it is…

(Borrowed from Let No Day Dawn that the Animals Cannot Share)

 

ODE TO MY CATS

 

What makes him Turkey and not a copy-cat?

What makes Bish Bish different

From every other cat?

A walk of walking,

of talking, of sharing,

A way of purring,

Of  running, of daring.

They are not alike, and no cat is:

Sebastian, Nero,

Bursties, Ms.

All are their own

All are quite rare

Each its last type—

And each made me care:

 

Timothy was first

He let him in

Into his life

The thick and the thin

 

He gently taught me

What I needed to know

About cats and their ways

And how to let go.

 

You need to know how to let go…

None of them share your whole life through

They live a few years, and all of them go

Much  too soon.

 

But the love and the memories

They ultimately leave

Soon make you forget

Your aptness to grieve.

 

Soon there’s another,

No copycat he:

He cannot replace,

He can only BE.

 

And somehow—thankfully—

That is enough…

 

Timothy was a great cat. Most cats are.

Some of my best friends have been cats. The rest of them (the human ones) have invariably loved cats.

Cat people get it… dog people, not so much (unless they’re also cat people).

Dog people tend to prefer animals that obey, fawn and fetch.

Cat people like animals that appear equal... or even better.

I saw a t-shirt once that said it all: “In ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods. Cats have never forgotten this.”

The late animal advocate and behaviorist Roger Caras was asked once, “Which of the domesticated species was the last to be domesticated?”  Caras replied, “Someday, the answer will be the cat.”

He got it.

Cats negotiate and agree to live with, and love, us. They choose us. They’re still wild. Ask any errant bird, mouse, fly, butterfly, rat, spider or gnat.

Observe. They’re little lions and tigers. Tame—yes. Tamed? That’s pure supposition (with a healthy dose of hope thrown in for good measure).

Maybe that’s why we love them so. They’re out there on the edge, living on the ledge between wilderness and hearth.

It feels like a special kind of blessing to be “adopted” by someone so utterly wild and wonderful, doesn’t it?

Please share your own first cat (or favorite cat) story in the comments section below!

 

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