From before I brought him home, nearly seventeen years ago, I knew he was no ordinary cat. The breeder said when she did the vacuuming, all the other kittens would scatter. But there was Monty riding on top of the cleaner. He was deaf, of course, but I’m pretty sure he was able to hear a bit, above and beyond feeling vibrations through the floor.
Just after I bought my first house, I phoned my parents and told them excitedly, “I’m getting a roommate!”
Dad, who was ever so hopeful since I had been single for a few years, promptly asked, “What’s her name?”
When I answered “Maxine,” there was stunned silence on the line for maybe 10 seconds. They’re old-fashioned in many ways.
Then Mom asked in a quiet voice, “So, you decided to rent out your spare bedroom?”
I responded, “No, it’s more like I’m taking her in,” and there was more silence.
I broke the silence this time and said “She’s got long, brown hair and big, beautiful eyes.” And taking pity on them at last, added, “And a long, bushy tail.”
This is my cat Monty. Not always the bravest one.