I'm not speaking of my husband, although he is indeed the LOVE of my life. I'm speaking of my tabby, Buddy.
We lived in a small patio home in Jacksonville, Florida with my Turkish Angora, Genny, and my Tortoiseshell, Mandy. I also had numerous stray cats thanks to a feral mother who was impossible to trap, and littered my neighborhood for several years until I lured her into a cage with grilled salmon sauteed in butter.
On that particular Valentine's Day, Ray was in the front yard hacking away at an Oleander bush. The thing was poisonous and he had a horrible skin rash on his arms every time he pruned it. I have a memory of standing in the garage, looking toward the driveway where Ray was sitting, sharpening a tool...and I saw he had a cat watching him. "Who's your little buddy?" I asked. "Don't know," he responded. "Haven't seen this one before."
At first I thought I hadn't either, but something about the tabby struck a familiar chord with me. A couple years before Angel, the feral littering my yard, gave birth at Christmas. Ray and I came home from Eve services to find six kittens crowding our front doorstep. "Is this a joke?" Ray shouted. The kittens scattered. Angel had been in the habit of bringing me her kits to take care of, so she could go back to being footloose and fancy free. The slut. The following week she brought her kittens back to me, this time into my yard, where she left them during the day. Naturally I fed them and provided a dog house for their shelter.
