Prowling the neighborhood–CT, short for â€œChicken Thief,â€ didn’t have a name for the longest time since he was a stray. One evening while I was eating my chicken dinner at the coffee table in front of the tv, he sneaked between my legs and grabbed a piece off my plate right underneath my nose. Can you guess how his sister Tofu got her name?
I was never a cat person.
And if someone told me I would be so devastated about losing a pet, I would never have believed it.
â€œChicken Thiefâ€ was a stray.
He was as mean as they come even through one of his last visits to the vet.
On his chart, there is a notation to that regard, but there’s always some over-confident young vet who doesn’t heed that warning from the veteran vet.
Buddies at play—Up and down the driveway, they would go and CT didn’t seem to mind being a passenger on this moving disaster, a gardening stool on wheels lashed with twine to my son’s locomotive.
And boy did he carry a grudge.
During that visit, after the doc was done probing and checking him while I held him firmly with a thick towel, he scurried to a corner of the stainless steel examination table and sulked.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed and the doc was discussing my options for treatment of the cancer on his nose.
Then the doc made the fateful error of moving within striking distance.
Wham! He lashed out with his paw and drew blood.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feign surprise, embarrassment or laugh out.
I know the doc didn’t think it was funny. But I sure did.
Just like a dog, CT never failed to greet me at the car door whenever I came home since he spent most of his life outdoors.
Perhaps it was because he is even older than my kids that I feel this loss more. Despite his streak, he never struck out at the kids, only me.
What can I say? I enjoyed messing with him on occasion, so I asked for it.