From our Memoir class, the SUN will on occasion print a current or past piece penned by our talented OLLI writers.
I'm an exotic, cute, one-and a- half-year old, all black domestic short hair named Richie and this is my story.
I once lived in the Long Beach Animal Shelter with many other feline companions, especially with Natasha, a lovely, long-whiskered orange tabby. One day, my handler forced me onto a table and said I was to be fixed. When I awakened in pain, I realized that I had never been broken, until I got fixed. If I could speak, I would have cried out, "Where's the rest of me?" However, alI I could manage was a loud "Meeee-ouch!" A short time later, Natasha no longer looked sexy to me.
The next morning, my handler declared, "It's unfortunate that completely black cats rarely get adopted. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before you are euthanized."
Since the term 'euthanasia' did not sound conducive to longevity, I became
determined to get adopted. These humans did not realize that I was once worshipped as a god in ancient Egypt. I was still a god, but only I seemed cognizant of that fact.
A few weeks later, while I lay in the warm sun on a windowsill, looking out at some stupid dogs entering the shelter, an old, lonely-Iooking man approached. He stroked me gently and I thought, "He's not very attractive, but the sadness in his eyes tells me that he needs a companion. I sure would
like to be his friend." I was suddenly thrust into the dark confines of a small carrier. Just when I thought I'd never get out, the top opened and I bounded
into the family room of a beautiful home. "Wow! I've been adopted
by that sad-eyed man." I ran gleefully from room to room, rubbing against the contents, claiming them for my very own. This was more than I had hoped for. Boy, I had access to 3 bathrooms, in which many feet of toilet paper were waiting to be shredded. This home that I now owned was the 'cat's meow'!
I soon found out why my friend, whose name happened to be Burt, seemed to have those sad eyes. In the long hallway of the bedroom wing hung a photograph of a pretty, dimple-cheeked young lady wearing a lace-adorned white dress. Beside her was young Burt in a tuxedo. They appeared to be
in love. There were several other photos of them at various stages of
their lives, some with their children and grandchildren. Apparently, this
pretty lady was no longer present.
Now, Burt thinks he owns me, but I really own him. After all, I am a cat. We have been close friends for several months. During most nights, I crawl into bed with him, and by day, I run from room to room, leaping from one surface to another, knocking anything in my path onto the floor. We also play the game, which I call "Hide the shoes" wherein I drag them by the shoelaces to various rooms and, then, he has to seek them out. I believe that I enjoy this game more than he does.
Burt now seems less lonely and his eyes appear to be much happier. We very much enjoy each other's company and I believe that we share a purr-fect relationship. I'm sure glad I adopted him.