He came from a line of strays on the streets of
New York City, so who knows what kind of genes accompanied him into his little
life. My brother and I had only known
that the “Free Kittens” sign on a lamppost in front of the neighborhood “Cat
lady’s” house meant a cute furry companion for our childhood. We had made up a song and dance routine (“We
really want a kitten, yeah!”) aimed at convincing my parents that we would be loving and
responsible cat owners. Somehow, our side show worked and days later a cautious
but curious kitten with a perfect black tuxedo coat and sharp willowy whiskers
crept out of a box and into our lives.
His name, “Mischief” was quickly discarded for the
moniker “The Puss”, bequeathed by my dad who had been less than thrilled about
this addition to the family. All of his fears about having an animal in an
apartment were, in fact, realized. The
Puss peed in places where he shouldn’t have, broke lamps, scratched furniture, vomited on
rugs, got stuck in the washing machine; and there were weeks when my brother
and I didn’t clean the litter box, forgot to brush his fur, and our living
space was littered with hairballs and the salty scent of stale cat urine.
