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| Name: |
William the Orange
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Age: |
Nine years old
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| Gender: |
Male
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Breed: |
Domestic Longhair
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| Home: |
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada
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The
Apricat first charmed the socks off me one Halloween midnight in
1991. I returned from a party and there he was, a sweet little
half-grown kitten blinking in the headlights. He rushed at me as
though I was his only friend, making pathetic, expiring coughing
noises. I promptly went to the corner store for Tender Vittles, and
fed him on the porch of the duplex I was living in. (Of course, I
later found out that he had charmed the entire street in the same
fashion - he had a bowl on the porch of each of at least seven
different houses.)
As the weather grew chillier, I succumbed, and within a week or so
the Fruffball was ensconced, lord of all he surveyed. Strangely, as
soon as he felt at home in his new abode, his kittenish attitude fell
away, and he suddenly sprawled into a long, but pathetically lean,
beast. One thing you must know about The O if you ever meet him - he
is not at the point of death. His coughing, wheezing, duck-like
noises proved to be the result of permanent scarring in his lungs,
from some kittenhood illness. Willome is well aware of how pathetic
he looks when he's gasping for air, and if he wants attention, or a
particularly succulent piece of cheese or pickle, he's quite capable
of putting it on. He also snores like a tiny person, and quite often
in the middle of the night I have to give him a little poke to make
him roll over.
He knows all his names, and comes running enthusiastically when
called. Nonetheless, he has a great sense of his own dignity. Cats
are allowed in our living room only when people are there too; other
cats who shall remain nameless must be dragged out kicking and
protesting when we leave, but our Fluffernutter will not be carried
out like a mere animal! Just look at him and say, "William, we're
leaving," and down off the chair he comes and out the door, his plumy
tail carried high in a graceful question-mark shape.
Mr. O is now the patriarch and Alpha Male to three other feline
beasts. He has grown into a regal and dignified creature, a cat of
infinite-resource-and-sagacity, who is yet still capable of rushing
from the basement to the second floor and back six times in sixty
seconds, or doing a shoulder roll to expose his creamy belly for
tickling. His preferred perch is upon the shoulder of one of his
people, and he loves to stick his freckled nose into one's face for
long cat kisses and sniffs. He does not stand upon his lofty position
as First Cat; he is still the Bud Spud, a sociable furry pal to
everyone he meets.
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