Before you get into this post, I just want to preface that it has nothing to do with my photography, but is instead a personal post and more just for me to write. I know that some people just don’t get the connection that pet owners have with their pets. If you’re one of those people you’ll most definitely want to stop here.
Last night my 22 year old cat had to be put down. Her name was Friskie, a name that only a 4 year old would be so “creative” to give.
Growing up in the country, we had numerous cats that people would drop off when they decided they just didn’t want them anymore. When one of those cats found their way to our home it usually kicked off a routine of me begging to keep it, my parents saying that we didn’t need another cat (especially my Dad who was far from a cat lover), and me putting food out for it anyway to convice it to stay. My first foster kitties though didn’t tame that easily. Because these two kitties hadn’t had a home, they were as wild as can be. So, imagine a not so sneaky four year old, who wanted nothing more than to hold and love these kitties, trying repeatedly, day after day to catch or at least touch one of two little 6 week old speedy kittens. Slowly but surely, the little black one, who my brother and I so creatively named Blackie, calmed down and would let us pet her. But, the fluffy little tiger striped one wanted nothing to do with rambunctious little me, I can’t imagine why.
I don’t know when she turned around, but for the last 22 years she was my companion, even when she didn’t want to be and would hide under the bed only for me to pull her back out. She even broke my “too tough to like cats” father. You see, all of these strays were essentially our incredibly friendly “barn” cats. I wasn’t allowed to take them inside, although every now and then my mom would let me when dad was at work. Eventually, he gave in though and Friskie began to rule the house. Every single night she would hop up on the arm of his chair and practically demand her pet job.
Of course her death wasn’t a total surprise. After all, how many cats live to be 22? Since we moved out to Indiana, each time I went back home, I would pet her a little extra before I left knowing that it could be the last time I would see her. She always made it to my next trip though, and would even wake me up in the middle of the night with her midnight sprints from one end of the house to the other, to show that she still lived up to her name. Next week when I go home though, Friskie won’t be there and it just won’t be the same.

Sorry for the less than flattering picture Brian. This picture was taken in 1987 not long after Blackie and Friskie found us. My brother and I were on our way to get our Christmas pictures done. I can only imagine that I insisted on one with the kitties before we left. It’s a small miracle that Friskie didn’t tear my fabulous heart tights to shreds.
-alm
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