juanito

On February 19th, 1999 at the Kittentanz cattery in Atlanta, Georgia, a pair of purebred Siamese cats named Carol and Caleb had a litter of four perfect little balls of fluff.  Mere weeks before, at the TRex family Christmas (that's TReXmas, ya greenhorn!), I had mentioned to my mother in an offhand way that maybe my boyfriend and I were ready to adopt a baby.  A baby Siamese, of course, not a baby human.

Flash forward several months to my birthday in May of that year.  I was embroiled in a nasty dispute with my landlord over my refusal to pay rent until the leaks in the ceiling and other repairs were done.  The landlord wanted me out so they could remodel and raise the rent.  After much heated argument, I was throwing my hand and complying with the eviction notice and spent the week before my birthday packing to move in with The Boyfriend and hoping the move wouldn't be too traumatic on Gus, who was eleven and starting to show the first signs of approaching old age.

Then, the day before my 30th birthday, as I was frantically sweeping the entire contents of dresser-tops into boxes and hastily taping them shut, then rushing to the next flat surface to do the same, I remembered what I had said to my mother at Christmas.  I hurried to call her.

"Mom," I said, "You didn't actually get me a kitten for my birthday, did you?  Cos we're moving and everything's so unsettled.  I just don't know if this would be the best time to introduce a new baby into the family."

My mother was silent for a moment on the other end of the line.

"Well…," she said, "I can keep him, I guess."

"Oh," I said, "Well, then, I'll be down to pick him up this weekend.  I'll figure it out."

The day of my birthday, we loaded into the car and drove the three hours to Mom's house and met the creature who would become the Center of My Life.  He was just a wee, palm-sized fluffball with huge blue eyes, the massive, pointy ears of a flying fox, and tiny, piercing cries that could bend steel.  My mom had called him "Dustin" as in Dustin Hoffman as in "The Graduate" because they got him from the breeder the day my brother (finally!) graduated from college.  Somehow, my mom parlayed that and the sprinkling of golden fuzz on his wee ears and face into "Dusty", because it looked like he'd been playing in dust and gotten it smeared all over his head.

Well, "Dusty" was a cute name, but to kitties, I can't imagine there's that much of a sonic difference between "Dusty" and "Gussy", which is what I call Gus.  We can't have the cats thinking I gave them the same name, so the search was on for a new appellation by which to call this newest member of my little family.

Within a few hours, it became very clear that Teh Baby was quite a noisy and imperious creature.  I was out on the porch playing "catch the string" with him when he sat down on his little butt and started howling.  "What is it, Little One, huh?"

"SQUAAAAAAAAAAWK!!"

"What's that?" I said, "Do you have a pressing appointment somewhere, Little One, little, uh…Juan?" 

So, I named him Juan.  Then, once I got him home and I began to realize the extent to which this tiny, yowling monster was going to be dictating my every move, I started to call him King Juan Carlos, which eventually became Juan Carlos the First, the King of Spain.  So, now you know.

The boyfriend wasn't happy at first.  He wasn't an animal person.  He had steeled himself to welcome me and Gus into our new, shared home, but another cat was kind of pushing it a bit.  This meant twice as much traffic through the litter box, twice as much food to buy, twice as much potential financial peril at the vet's office.

Well, Juan Carlos sold himself to my ex with a ruthless efficiency.  You have to love a kitten who is determined to win your heart.  Within his first 36 hours as an official resident in our home, he had nearly exhausted every single Incredibly Cute Maneuver he could muster and the ex was hooked, suckered, ready to throw himself in the path of speeding buses and trains for our little first-born.

Well, eight years have passed.  The ex has gone off to make some other poor guy into a nervous wreck (Yay!), I'm in another apartment, and my teeny-weenie fluffball of a kitten has grown into 12 pounds of sweet, fluffy lovin' kitty.  My friend Dave describes him as, "the softest, silkiest and most pettable cat out there".  I swear to you that this is no exaggeration.  He's very, very special.  Even people who swear they hate cats have to agree.  He's not just a looker, he's the sweetest, most agreeable, "pick me up and hold me like a baby if you want" kitty ever.  

He curls in my arms at bedtime each night and tucks his wee fuzzy head under my chin.  When I wake up in the morning, he's the first thing I'm aware of, generally tucked into my side under the covers or standing on the night stand waiting for me to get up and open a can of food.  It's the hardest thing about leaving home for me.  How am I supposed to fall asleep without my little buddy rumbling in my arms and kissing my nose and chin?

Sigh.

So, happy birthday, little buddy.  Not that you care.  Every day is your birthday as far as you're concerned, isn't it? 

If I'm really, really good in this life, I will come back as one of my own cats.   

Hope you guys don't mind two fluffy posts in a row.  I'll be back on my snarky game tomorrow, I swear.  Otherwise, we'll have to start calling this place the Fluffington Post.  And we can't have that, now, can we? 

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