You know that when you become involved with someone their baggage will become yours.
I met a certain New York girl several years back, and in a fit of love inspired insanity left my native Texas soil behind to move my country ass up NYC way.
Failed relationships, ex-husbands, childhood traumas, all these I was prepared to deal with, but a woman with a cat....that was something else entirely. Not just a cat, but 30 pounds of stealthy, territorial rage. Creeping across the floor at night, siddling up to my sleeping head, projectile vomiting at my noggin. Rocketing across the floor at 5 am, an angry furry bowling ball, bouncing on the bed and ramming into my side. Meowling in my ear and nawing on my hair.
A truly dedicated companion for my fair lass.
It took about a year, but after many a butt scratch (me scratching his thank you) and some late night feedings, the Goose and I attained a mutual respect. If not a respect for each other, at least repect for our mutual affection for Carey.
I would like to think that, as the Goose (aka Dylan, aka Jesus That's A Fat Cat)and I spent more time together he accepted me as not so bad a guy.
I remember our last few nights together. A trace of animosity as I crawled into his hair covered side of the bed, but mostly a comfortable understanding. He would lay a heavy tread across my chest, letting me know who was boss, before finally settling into my side. His ass in my face and a deep purr in his throat.
Goose was the coolest cat I've ever known, and the only one I ever liked, respected, and feared.
The good die young. Goose was 13. Maybe not young, but definately cool.
When I part this veil of tears, I hope that I have at least one night of fear as I hear his bulk trouncing across the floor, and comfort as he nestles into my side for a purring evening of rest.
Good? When it suited. Bad? Upon occasion. Knowing? Certainly. Faithful? Without a doubt.
R.I.P. El Gato Grande.
Glad I knew ya.