Therefore, I have decided to write a little diddy about my little Prince of Fur. When I decided to get my very own apartment in the city, I also decided to get a feline friend, allergies be damned. Well, honestly, I knew that my parents' Himalayans cats didn't bother my allergic sensibilities, so I thought if I got a similarly flat-faced cat, I would be alright. One visit in response to an ad in the local paper to see a little of the little guys and I fell in love. Eight weeks old, not much more than a little ball of fur, literally, I knew he must be mine. Two days later, on my way back to my new apartment, we swung by to get him for good. He as all mine, and I named him Oxford.
On a side note, I went thought many different names for this cat before I ever even laid eyes on him. Since I knew I was going to get a cat when I returned from my European excursion that summer, I had been trying to figure out a creative and fun name for him. He as Giovanni Paulo Due when I was in Rome (you know, the last Pope). Then he was Johannes (this was another version of the pope). I settled on Oxford. I can't imagine him having any other name.
The first day I left him alone in my apartment, he cried. Little baby mews I could hear the instant my heavy door shut. I remember plodding down the green carpet of my first apartment building with tears in my eyes, feeling rotten for leaving that tiny little soul alone. He was so tiny at that point, he needed a pillow to serve as a step so he could jump up onto my couch. Of course, I gladly obliged. He was so cute, there wasn't much I wouldn't do to help him.
The same sentiment rings true to this day. Next month, he will be seven years old and considered a "senior" according to some cat food packaging. He is still spry and loves his cat nip cigars and his Trader Joe's double wide scratcher. He will get a little wild and do the sideways run. He still will sneak up to you when you're not paying attention and slyly bite your toe if it's dangling ever-so-temptingly. (This was a favorite past-time he had as a kitten. You wouldn't dare let a foot dangle from underneath the covers for risk of getting a sharp kitten tooth in your toe.)
His latest shenanigan? Puke bombs. This has happened before, resulting in a very expensive trip to the vet with x-rays where they told me, "We don't know, maybe he is allergic to his food and that is why he keeps throwing up." Well, he did it again. Apparently, he became allergic to his affordable food and I now have to spend twice as much on "natural" food from a fancy pet store. Honestly, it's worth it to not get "puke bombed" and step in his vomit when I'm half asleep (GROSS). But for this:
It's hard to not do anything for that little sweetheart. Call me a crazy cat lady, I don't care. He meows when he hears me coming up the stairs, he snuggles with me in bed, he's my little guy. And clearly, he is the boss. I mean, his subtle side eye prompted his own special posting.
Well done, cat.
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