Cute cats being my writing buddies Puck & Frodo, both of whom have gone over the Rainbow Bridge. I lost Frodo last Summer, Puck three years ago. But I still feel them around the apartment — both Brett and I have. They were warm, purring weights on the bed at night and all during the day….
Puck was our oldest boy, our ginger boneless lapcat, aka “A-puck-alypse Meow”. We got him at a pet store without intending to; we were initially just pricing fish. We walked along the aquarium wall, commenting on the fish; we got to the back wall with the bunnies & hamsters & puppies (“oh how cute!”) . We got to the section with the kittens (“oh how CUTE!”); I was moving on when a little ginger kitten woke up, saw me, and proceeded to put his paws on the bars of the cage, SHAKE the bars, and yowl his lungs out.
Brett heard me go, “Breeett….” and came back over: “Chris, we’ve got two already. We can’t go over lease.” Uh-huh.
The little kitten was still yowling and shaking the bars. I asked the clerk to bring the kitten out; kitten shut up the minute he was in my hands and refused to let go.
Yeah. That outcome should be obvious. The little kitten figured out within 30 seconds of the car ride how to get out of his cardboard carrier; Brett had to hold him all the way home so he wouldn’t crawl all over the car or mess with my driving. The kitten wanted in MY lap, and he wanted it NOW.
He was “Puck” by the time we reached home — and got dubbed “A-Puck-alypse Meow” a day or so after he was home and causing total chaos with our other two cats. Before he got too old to manage the leap, Puck was constantly on the top-back of my computer chair, a warm purring neck-rest.
He became our fuzzy orange alarm clock; he’d meow right at 6 AM until Brett got up. He’d lead Brett to the food bowl and eat (a habit spookily continued by Faramir, who’s only a year old…who’s also a big fuzzy ginger purrball). At 7:30, Puck either be lying at my feet or head-bumping my hand to wake me up so I’d open the back shades for the sunbeams. He’d be waiting for me when I got out of the shower & dressed; the first 10 minutes after that was cuddle time before I went to work. He’d spend his day sleeping in the warm sunbeams, accepting more cuddles and petting when I came out on break.
When I was working, he’d be right there, meowing until I lifted him into my lap. When I’d write in the evenings, I’d usually curl up on the sofa with my laptop, and Puck would be with me a couple minutes later, either squirming between me & the laptop (and totally unaware that my Macbook has an onboard camera; there’s some great photos resulting from those “MOMMM STOP WRITING AND CUDDLE NIAOWW!!” sessions) or he’d curl up in the crook of my legs and nap. He was my NaNoWriMo cat — he was with me whenever I was at home & writing, head-bumping, purring, napping.
He was my friend. He was my buddy. He was my Goddess-given animal companion. At 16, Puck died of cancer, a huge mass of tumor in his chest; he died purring and being cuddled by his two humans.
Frodo was our baby boy of the Puck/Scooter/Frodo trio, a Humane Society adopt, a little kitten that reached out between the bars and kept catching at me and Brett’s hands and yowled whenever we walked away — yeah, we’re suckers like that. He got his name 10 seconds after I picked him up for the first time, because his kitten face perpetually wore the same stunned deer-in-headlights expression that Elijah Wood (aka Frodo Baggins) wears throughout Lord Of The Rings.
He was also my NaNoWriMo cat, taking over that duty after Puck died, though in Fro’s case, it was more like “worm way into lap, wiggle butt until laptop nearly hits ground, then fall asleep”. My lap was HIS lap, and he never let me forget it. Brett tagged him my “PFA” (Personal Feline Assistant), because after my constant hospital stays and whenever I’ve been out on disability due to complications from surgeries, Frodo was constantly in my lap, or stretched out on top of me, or sleeping on top of me at night, stretched out from my shoulder to hip and purring in my ear, a warm furry weight — and I had a lot of problems sleeping when he WASN’T there. He was my book critic, too —
But last year…he got diagnosed with a a growth in his digestive system; due to his age & size of the growth, the vet thought the surgery would be too risky. We opted for palliative care instead, which gave us three more months with my furry writing buddy…during which Frodo discovered that he really did love tuna, and easily went through a basket of tuna cans, due to his humans being unable to deny him such treats.
He slid downhill very fast over Memorial Day Weekend last year, to the point where he couldn’t walk & had lost far too much weight. I didn’t want him suffering any more. He went peacefully, with both his humans cuddling him. Goddess bless, Frodo.