Various pictures of Miko, also one of her being cuddled by Whiskas, and one of her and her brother all cuddled up.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Okay, maybe I do take too many pictures of her
Various pictures of Miko, also one of her being cuddled by Whiskas, and one of her and her brother all cuddled up.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Introducing Miko
I remember the first time I saw her, a tiny, frail little thing, eyes barely open and much too young to be away from her mother. My little brother brought her to me wrapped in a blanket, curled up around her brother. As is my habit with cats, I fell in love with her at first sight. Abandoned, with no place to go, there was no question as to whether we would look after these dainty babies.
Her head was over-sized for her body, her right eye slightly lazy, but she was beautiful. Back then, it seemed all she ever did was cry, sleep and drink the kitten milk I painstakingly fed her, trying to be as gentle as I could. I watch her now, at this moment, looking at me with faint interest as she always does when I'm doing anything that does not involve her, and the love I feel for her is motherly, protective and fearful.
Now alone, her brother having joined the local gang of cats, she is truly a pampered little princess. Though she plays outside, often giving my boyfriend and me disdainful looks if we interrupt her, in the same way a child is embarrassed by their parents, she knows that when she wants our attention, she is able to get it without much trouble on her part.
Sometimes, as I watch her stalk through the grass, crouching and ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, I wonder how it is possible to love this much.
Now alone, her brother having joined the local gang of cats, she is truly a pampered little princess. Though she plays outside, often giving my boyfriend and me disdainful looks if we interrupt her, in the same way a child is embarrassed by their parents, she knows that when she wants our attention, she is able to get it without much trouble on her part.
Sometimes, as I watch her stalk through the grass, crouching and ready to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, I wonder how it is possible to love this much.
A love that runs deep
All my life, I've wondered how it is possible for people to dislike cats. Loving cats came easily to me, perhaps it was my mother who passed this beautiful gift of love for our feline friends on to me, or maybe I was simply born with the feline gene.
Without a doubt, the single most important factor in my deeply profound love and respect for all cats was the influence of the many beautiful creatures I had the pleasure of growing up with. To this day, I can still recall dozens of my friends names, their mannerisms, whether they liked to be cuddled constantly or left to their own devices, and of course the hardest thing to remember, how these brave and beautiful animals met their end.
As a child, the death of any of our many cats always hit me especially hard. I achingly remember one particular death of a tiny black kitten who was so affectionate, despite having been seriously badly treated in her short life. She was hit by our car, a completely unavoidable accident on behalf of my mother, but in my childlike mind, it had been my error that had caused her untimely death. If only I had checked to see whether she was safe as we drove away, perhaps she could have lived a long and happy life. I couldn't eat my food for days, even refused to go to school so strong was my grief.
In time, the wounds healed but as I grew up, my grief was repeated again and again, the most recent time only a week ago, the aching pang of guilt and sorrow still freshly torn wounds in my heart.
His name was Whiskas, like the food, no doubt the animal shelter we adopted him from thought this original and witty. Whiskas was a charming cat in his youth, ginger and white, so friendly and affectionate, with anyone and everyone, even with a band of semi-stray tabbys who rejected him. As he grew, our neighbourhood Alpha cat, a huge cougar of a cat named Chicken, took a vicious dislike to him. Whiskas would return home with various cuts and matted fur, eyes big and trusting, only ever longing to be loved. As the attacks grew more violent in nature, my beautiful ginger boy became timid and fearful, only ever daring to eat if I was there to guard him. His gratitude for this simple task was evident, the love he showered on me was undeserved. I had allowed a confident, brave beast to be turned into a cowering, terrified mass of limp blooded limbs and patched fur.
Last week, I returned home from a fortnight away. Whiskas was nowhere to be seen, and hadn't been seen for a little over a week. Never a cat to stray far, as he knew the only place he was safe was cuddled up on our couch, I knew that the thing I had dreaded had finally happened. In my heart of hearts, I know he is no longer with us, but I hope that he was found by a loving old woman who cherishes him with everything she has. This is what I must cling onto. This is how much I loved him.
Without a doubt, the single most important factor in my deeply profound love and respect for all cats was the influence of the many beautiful creatures I had the pleasure of growing up with. To this day, I can still recall dozens of my friends names, their mannerisms, whether they liked to be cuddled constantly or left to their own devices, and of course the hardest thing to remember, how these brave and beautiful animals met their end.
As a child, the death of any of our many cats always hit me especially hard. I achingly remember one particular death of a tiny black kitten who was so affectionate, despite having been seriously badly treated in her short life. She was hit by our car, a completely unavoidable accident on behalf of my mother, but in my childlike mind, it had been my error that had caused her untimely death. If only I had checked to see whether she was safe as we drove away, perhaps she could have lived a long and happy life. I couldn't eat my food for days, even refused to go to school so strong was my grief.
In time, the wounds healed but as I grew up, my grief was repeated again and again, the most recent time only a week ago, the aching pang of guilt and sorrow still freshly torn wounds in my heart.
His name was Whiskas, like the food, no doubt the animal shelter we adopted him from thought this original and witty. Whiskas was a charming cat in his youth, ginger and white, so friendly and affectionate, with anyone and everyone, even with a band of semi-stray tabbys who rejected him. As he grew, our neighbourhood Alpha cat, a huge cougar of a cat named Chicken, took a vicious dislike to him. Whiskas would return home with various cuts and matted fur, eyes big and trusting, only ever longing to be loved. As the attacks grew more violent in nature, my beautiful ginger boy became timid and fearful, only ever daring to eat if I was there to guard him. His gratitude for this simple task was evident, the love he showered on me was undeserved. I had allowed a confident, brave beast to be turned into a cowering, terrified mass of limp blooded limbs and patched fur.
Last week, I returned home from a fortnight away. Whiskas was nowhere to be seen, and hadn't been seen for a little over a week. Never a cat to stray far, as he knew the only place he was safe was cuddled up on our couch, I knew that the thing I had dreaded had finally happened. In my heart of hearts, I know he is no longer with us, but I hope that he was found by a loving old woman who cherishes him with everything she has. This is what I must cling onto. This is how much I loved him.
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