SirenSongWoman
Cathlete
Those of you familiar know I have 5 cats (2 who go out and 3 who're strictly indoors) and 3 orange boys, unrelated to one another, who are in/out kitties but whom I keep in my downstairs kitchen. Thus, I call them my Kitchen Cats. I worked 2 hours overtime tonight and pulled up in front of my house at about 1am and just froze when my headlights hit on an orange shape in the street. There are so many orange strays in the neighborhood and my mind raced while I prayed the kitty wasn't one of mine. But I knew the shape and I was pretty sure it was T.C., the Kitchen Cat I've known and loved longer than every cat I've encountered except my Binky. It was T.C., my little HoneyMan. I can write about this is because what life without T.C. will mean just hasn't hit me yet. I guess I'm in shock.
Top Cat (T.C.), along with his pops (the long-disappeared Scamp) were the first neighborhood kitties I became attached to and cared for without technically making them mine. Both belonged to a lady down the street who had (has) way too many cats and too little money for which to properly care for her animals. Both T.C. (whom I nicknamed HoneyMan) and Scamp became so very dear to me. I only had two polaroids of Scamp when he disappeared (I GRIEVED!) so I promised I'd never not have pictures of any other cats I loved. So T.C. is (was) a photographed cat. I'm thankful for that now.
T.C.'s real mommy never let him in the house, no matter how cold it was outside (this is central Ohio!) so that's how he and his late daddy became semi-permanent residents of my kitchen. After that, I got them both fixed, got them their shots and that's how I found out about a year ago that T.C. had an extremely high white blood cell count. I wrote about it here. I wrote how the vet wanted me to put him down but I couldn't because he behaved so healthy. I don't know if it was his urine or his poo but the only time I could tell he was sick was when I cleaned the litter box because ever spot soiled by T.C. was like wet cement. It made scooping out the Kitchen Cats box a daily nightmare. When I wrote about him here, after his pseudo-diagnosis of cancer I wrote that I hoped he'd be able to pass peacefully on a warm day, on a front porch cushion on which he likes to nap in the sun. It wasn't to be. Every night, getting out of my car with all my stuff before He (and my evil Tangerine) could dart out to greet me is/was always such a struggle. I just know someone pulled up across the street and he, assuming it was me, ran out and got hit. Old as he was, and seemingly so street-smart, my HoneyMan, so familiar with navigating traffic, was hit by a car in the street. I'll go to bed and I'll sleep but waking is going to really hurt. I can't imagine what it will feel like to not call out "T.C..... Casper..... KittyBoy...." from my front porch.
The worst part? I can't keep the in/out cats inside because they'll go absolutely bonkers. Yet now, I'm paranoid about having them outside at all. Tangee attacked me so I had to let him out but I worry about him, especially, because he hasn't the sense of a stick and he habitually freezes in the street like a deer in headlights.
Anyway, I dug a hole in the back yard for my little orange boy at 2am, I pet his fur one last time, and I whispered in my baby's ear "I love you HoneyMan... I love you all I can" and I laid him to rest. I need to write his real mom a note... include some photos... The other Kitchen Cats seem oblivious to their loss, gobbling up their extra food (a can split 2 ways instead of 3...), even though they had to have seen him in the street. He was probably killed many hours before I got home so maybe it was old news... I apologize for rambling. I'm just miserable and I can't focus. And I should probably go to bed but I'm not ready yet.
Top Cat (T.C.), along with his pops (the long-disappeared Scamp) were the first neighborhood kitties I became attached to and cared for without technically making them mine. Both belonged to a lady down the street who had (has) way too many cats and too little money for which to properly care for her animals. Both T.C. (whom I nicknamed HoneyMan) and Scamp became so very dear to me. I only had two polaroids of Scamp when he disappeared (I GRIEVED!) so I promised I'd never not have pictures of any other cats I loved. So T.C. is (was) a photographed cat. I'm thankful for that now.
T.C.'s real mommy never let him in the house, no matter how cold it was outside (this is central Ohio!) so that's how he and his late daddy became semi-permanent residents of my kitchen. After that, I got them both fixed, got them their shots and that's how I found out about a year ago that T.C. had an extremely high white blood cell count. I wrote about it here. I wrote how the vet wanted me to put him down but I couldn't because he behaved so healthy. I don't know if it was his urine or his poo but the only time I could tell he was sick was when I cleaned the litter box because ever spot soiled by T.C. was like wet cement. It made scooping out the Kitchen Cats box a daily nightmare. When I wrote about him here, after his pseudo-diagnosis of cancer I wrote that I hoped he'd be able to pass peacefully on a warm day, on a front porch cushion on which he likes to nap in the sun. It wasn't to be. Every night, getting out of my car with all my stuff before He (and my evil Tangerine) could dart out to greet me is/was always such a struggle. I just know someone pulled up across the street and he, assuming it was me, ran out and got hit. Old as he was, and seemingly so street-smart, my HoneyMan, so familiar with navigating traffic, was hit by a car in the street. I'll go to bed and I'll sleep but waking is going to really hurt. I can't imagine what it will feel like to not call out "T.C..... Casper..... KittyBoy...." from my front porch.
The worst part? I can't keep the in/out cats inside because they'll go absolutely bonkers. Yet now, I'm paranoid about having them outside at all. Tangee attacked me so I had to let him out but I worry about him, especially, because he hasn't the sense of a stick and he habitually freezes in the street like a deer in headlights.
Anyway, I dug a hole in the back yard for my little orange boy at 2am, I pet his fur one last time, and I whispered in my baby's ear "I love you HoneyMan... I love you all I can" and I laid him to rest. I need to write his real mom a note... include some photos... The other Kitchen Cats seem oblivious to their loss, gobbling up their extra food (a can split 2 ways instead of 3...), even though they had to have seen him in the street. He was probably killed many hours before I got home so maybe it was old news... I apologize for rambling. I'm just miserable and I can't focus. And I should probably go to bed but I'm not ready yet.
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