Easy come, easy go…

So I just read a very sweet story by a fellow blogger I’m delighted to know thanks to WordPress. Luanne Castle writes both prose and poetry so beautifully, and has attained heights that I can only dream of, like traditionally published books, and prizes too… Wow! Her lovely story about Toby, a kitten she once had, can be found here.

My own tale is also about a black kitten – it’s about Blackie, who looked a lot like this:

Back when I was a little girl, around six years old, I longed for a kitten. How I pestered my parents for one! But they were reluctant to say the least, not wanting to take on any more responsibilities beyond their two kids (I had a big brother who didn’t care about kittens one whit!) plus work in their store and at home.

But I soooo wanted a kitty! Finally, one amazing day – it was a Sunday, and my father’s store was closed – he came home carrying a tiny bundle in a blanket. I still remember my daddy presenting me with the adorable little black ball of fur. Gosh it was so cute! I named her Blackie… because yes, she was black. Hey, I was six. 😀

For the next little while I showered her with adoration… or tried to. She didn’t stay in my arms for very long, preferring instead to meander around on the floor and discover every little thing on her own.

Then one day my parents said that Blackie had to go to the vet to get “spayed.” Of course I said, “Huh?” – or something similar. They explained that spaying meant that she wouldn’t be able to have kittens herself. Okay, I understood that. Sort of.

The next day my mom got a call from the vet. I heard her say “What?! Oh. Haha, well, okay, yes please.” The story came out, regarding Blackie: she was actually a he. Did we want him fixed? Yes please!

So Blackie, after he’d been neutered, came back to us a day later. And he was never the same cat. (I mean, aside from that. 😀)

He became a holy terror overnight! He clawed everything. And he constantly ran around the house like a crazy cat doing the Olympic 100-metre sprint.

The last straw was this: one morning, when my mom went into the kitchen, she saw paw marks. On the ceiling. I swear. She called us in to see. Sure enough, paw marks went up the wall and along the ceiling! (Though not for very far!)

Blackie just wore out his welcome, you could say. He bit off more than he could chew, perhaps. He was no longer the cat’s meow, so to speak. Very soon he was gone, to the SPCA, as I recall.

I didn’t mourn Blackie too much, since he hadn’t been part of our lives for very long. And when he was with us, he never really bonded with us. He was more like a temporary boarder. I do hope he had a better life… with someone else.