Cat person

Growing up, I would have considered myself a cat person. We each had a cat of our own. My cat was a white Persian with gorgeous, fluffy fur and emerald green eyes. Fittingly, her name was Whitey. My twin sister Jackie's cat was her brother, a Himalayan named Greyie. He was brown. They were both the kittens of my mom's cat who was named, again fittingly, Mama Cat. And our little sister Annie later got a grey tabby cat that we named Snuggles. 

I loved Whitey. She would jump on my bed when I got home from school. I would sleep with her at my feet. My best friend Melinda, who was not a cat person at all, would sometimes tell me on the walk to school with a disdainful eyebrow raise, "Did you know your shirt is covered in white cat fur?"

After law school, I stumbled upon a black cat named Leopold at a cat adoption fair at the mall next door to the corporate law firm where I worked. He mewed at me and I was in love. He was a snuggler and kept me company all through my Houston lonely days. My dad even watched Leopold for me for a time while I was moving to San Francisco to be with Adrian who was in dental school. Dad always said he was allergic to cats but my mom would catch him holding Leopold on his lap. 

When my mom and dad drove Leopoldo Bloom (that was his full name) to San Francisco, he got out at the rest stop and almost gave my mom a fit. When we moved back to the Inland Empire, Leopold was killed (by a bobcat I believe) when I was at the fair. I've told the story before, but I had the most blinding headache when I was leaving the fair and that was probably when he was howling for me. I dreamed about Leopold for weeks after he passed. It was a hard, deep depression and was all mixed up with the grief I still achingly felt for my dad passing the year prior. It was only when I saw Frodo, my black and white shih tzu, and adopted him that I felt a ray of sun back in my life. 

Losing Frodo this year, so suddenly from a brain tumor, felt like a knife was being pressed into my side over and over again. I couldn't breathe most days. Chewbacca and I would both lay in bed and sigh. Chewbacca usually comforts me when I'm sad, but he was so sad, I had to snap out of it to comfort him. That helped me through it. I made him eat. I changed his schedule. I would whisper to him and maybe to myself, "It's okay, Frodo is in a better place". 

Looking back, I still think I am naturally a cat person. But love doesn't know species and my cat affection is now reserved for my Chewbacca, a brown eyed shih tzu with golden fur who follows me around like a duck. 

So meow meow, ruff ruff and quack quack everyone. Happy Friday.