Well, it’s my turn to fill in for Doug, and no, I have no idea why he and John so kindly gave me the keys to the place either. And yes, I can think of ten other people that deserve it more than I do too, but I’ve often been luckier than I probably deserve and as the least successful early adopter of this blogging thing, I certainly appreciate the encouragement.
Since it’s a holiday and with apologies to Anne Laurie for stepping on her meme, I’m starting with a shameless attempt to ingratiate myself to the Balloon Juicers with a pet memoriam for Phoebe.
Phoebe was my parents’ cat. She died tragically in some kind of mysterious seizure right before their eyes. No one knows what happened. I was crushed with grief. Still am. Of the three they had, she was “my” cat. Pickles and Jack like me well enough, but Phoebe really loved me.
All three were rescue cats. In fact, my Dad and Mom are a two man cat rescue league. Stray cats find them like hobos with a secret mark on their gate. Over the years, they’ve literally rescued dozens. Some few became house cats. Some they find other homes for. The ones that are too feral, they catch, have them neutered and return them to the wild.
Phoebe has been gone for two years now. She rests under the lilies they planted on her grave. And this month two new recruits arrived. CeeCee, which stands for Cardboard Cat because she was so thin when she showed up, will probably never make it indoors. Too skittish. However, despite my Mom’s adamant denials, I’m predicting the latest arrival, who has yet to be named, eventually will. Probably sooner than later.