“So, what do you think?” Mom asked, excitedly.
“About what?” I muttered.
“My friend is giving me her cat. I’m picking it up today.”
I’d been begging for a cat, since I was born (practically) and been denied the entire time. Then, as soon as I’m out of the family home, my Mom decides that, well, let’s have a pet.
Got to be kidding me. Global conspiracy by parenthood.
So Mom toted home a beautiful gray shorthair and dubbed him Tory. Tory hadn’t had the best life, he’d been invited then summarily rejected from numerous homes. Even the friend had fed the cat, let him in her home, and then kicked him out without a reasonable motive that I could determine.
I don’t blame Tory for being jumpy, he legitimately didn’t believe he would stay with Mom for long. He was also shy, I called it scared, of the new people he suddenly found himself surrounded by. He would ensure that he would never be trapped against the furniture, darting out of sight if anyone even got close. A streak of grey.
He had the brightest yellow-green eyes with irises intersected by slitted pupils.
Tory took to Mom like a kitten to its mother. She could pick him up without getting shredded, indulge his plaintive meows for food, and sternly chastise him for scratching the furniture.
At first, Tory didn’t go outside. And when he did, Tory wouldn’t listen when Mom called him back in. Apparently he thought he was getting kicked out again. Mom would call and call, and he wouldn’t come. He’d hide in the forest, or under the car, and refuse to come out. So Mom would shrug, and go back inside, and moments later, the cat would be crying and scratching the door.
Such a headstrong creature, he had his own timing for everything. He would come, when he was damn good and ready, and not a moment sooner. But Mom had raised one stubborn daughter in her lifetime, and a cat was no great challenge after that. She would regale me with stories of Tory, and his temper. How he would tip his nose in the air when Mom would ask him to come or go. How he would beg for attention, then thwart it when it was given.
Such a contrary fellow!
His fur was a light gray that reminded me of a Russian blue. I am not certain what kind of cat he was, though he had the softest fur, and this intelligent sparkle in his eye that glinted with challenge and sass. I can’t imagine the look on his face after he got his kitty vasectomy. Must have felt affronted!
I was going to say “de-masculinized” but that wouldn’t have been compassionate… It didn’t decrease his appeal, lean furry machine that he was.
I saw Tory twice or so. The first time, he wouldn’t get close. I couldn’t even touch him unless Mom tricked him by picking him up and transferring him from her arms to mine. The second time, he’d completely integrated into the family. He was friendly, playful, and would apparently mistake me for Mom as he would treat me exactly the same after I’d only been there for a day. When I petted him, Tory purred loudly, and happily for the first few minutes, but then he would bite the person’s hand as if to say “enough! Stop petting me!”
A few minutes later he’d come over again and be like “okay, you may commence petting me again.”
I loved Tory, he was so sassy and independent.
Unfortunately, we don’t know where he is now. He probably has gone to the great kitty beyond. Apparently there were coyotes in the area, and when Mom let him outside one day, as she customarily would do at his insistence, Tory didn’t come back.
We waited, and waited. But he never came home. Later, Mom touched base with a neighbor who shared that he also was missing two of his three cats, possibly to the coyotes.
Mom talked about getting another cat, but to my knowledge, she hasn’t. She went to the animal shelter, but she just couldn’t.
There was no cat that could replace Tory….