I have written numerous posts about adapting to a new life in Mexico. Many readers of this blog know that I have even published two books on the topic. In both Magic Made in Mexico and Tomando Agua de Pozo I have mentioned that cats make excellent companions.
Friendly (when they want to be)
Loyal (if you treat them well)
Cute (when they are young and cleaned up)
Sweet (when they want something)
Curious (as can be)
And easy to look after (most of the time)
Acquiring one is effortless… “The cat will find you.”
And yesterday, that’s precisely what happened at our house.
We’ve had many cats over the years. The first was Blackie, a very “original” name for a jet black beauty who came came home with us after looking at me with his sea green eyes, and repeatedly rubbing against my leg during a friend’s birthday party. But it was not too long before he mysteriously died. Just like that. He must have had distemper – quite common in young cats.
I felt devastated and did not want another cat. Period.
A few years later, Perla dragged herself to our door. A gorgeous Siamese cross, she had been hit by a car. Poor little thing – I knew she would probably not make it but I nursed her for several weeks until she also went up to the big kitty home in the sky.
Two down. Too quickly. No more cats, I vowed.
But then 4 year old Maggie played with an orange ball of fluff at a play-date. “Oh you can take him home,” my friend told my daughter. And of course, we did. He fared better than his predecessors, and lived for seven years as a pampered member of our household. He stoically allowed Maggie to dress him in doll clothes and he sat on a chair during her tea parties. Why she called him Timmy Gonzalez, I have no idea, but that was the name she gave him.
After Timmy Gonzalez, we had no cat for many years. But one fateful day at the market I spied a mangy mutt chasing a scrappy little kitten. By the time I ran to the rescue, the dog had it in his mouth and looked ready for breakfast. I smacked the tormenter’s snout and out spilled “Hobbsie.”
Hobbsie was the “cat of my life.” He adored me, in his aloof way. He meowed at the top of his lungs any time he wanted something and I complied. I loved him immensely and my eyes tear as I remember his death, at 12 years of age, from kidney disease.
I did NOT want another cat, but now, a year and a half later (a decent mourning period) this black and white bandit has declared his desire to be my Kitty Number 5. If Elizabeth Taylor had 5 husbands, I guess that I can take on a new pet, can’t I?
So, I have called Debi, my friend and fellow blogger, asking for the name of her vet, and we’ll see how this little guy fares…
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