Paul sprang into my life about 15 months ago. I noticed him loitering around the barn one afternoon and I invited him to live with me. He was a fine looking yellow and white stripe tomcat. Looked to be only about 7 months old, and since I live a couple of miles from the nearest neighbor he was obviously a stray. He walked into the house like he was walking onto a yacht. He exuded confidence and was met by the hissing and fits from my two pussy cats, both old maids, and he never missed a stride.
The maltipoo pup and he were immediately fast friends and spent the next year playing nonstop. He grew to be a large tom. He could out run all my labs and my walker hound. When we took him in to get his rabies shot early on in his life with us, the vet said he had feline leukemia and would either live, live and be sick or get sick and die. We took him home and hoped for the best.
Paul got sick about a month ago and stopped eating and drinking about a week ago. He died in our bathroom 48 hours ago. I buried him in the lean to against the barn between the hay balers yesterday, the only dry place I could find with our recent rains and snows. He entertained us with his playful and curious nature. He was smart. He was a great athlete before he got sick. His eyes were orange-yellow and when he looked at you you could tell there was more going on up in that little kitty-cat mind than is typical.
I gave Paul one last pat on his little head before I placed him in his garbage sack coffin wrapped in one of my old tee-shirts to ward off the cold and said my good-byes. I asked God if it would not be too much trouble to please send Paul back in a healthy body since we feel we did not get to spend enough time with this most fascinating and beautiful of his creations. I will be on the look out for Paul II.
A new dog walked up about two weeks ago and he is a pup of about 8 months I suspect, and he has a nervousness about him that comes with having been mistreated in his former home. He is so grateful for any attention, but is quick to flee if you make any quick movements or pick up a shovel to bury Paul with, for example. He will settle down in about three months and be one of the pack. He has been named Reginald.
A young black Tom with a very pointed snout, like the Egyptian Cat God walked on to the farm and was invited inside about three weeks before Paul's demise. Reginald and Tut are on schedule to get shots and neutered soon, but they haven't a clue.
Life goes on.
Barack, Mitt, Newt, Mahmoud, Bibi, Bill, Jon, Hillary, George, Harry, Nasty, are all good and fine, but I prefer the company of Reginald, Tut, Lavern, Grace, Big Dog, Iris, Lil, Roxy, and the five chickens who, still, after three years remain unnamed.
Jackson Delano Maybolt, President, Urban Poverty Law Center
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