The first cats I ever had were Summer and Nicky. Summer died earlier this year, and I put up this page shortly thereafter.

I got them both from a combined litter of two sister cats who both mooched off my former mother-in-law, where my son lived with his father. As a kid I had a history of sadism involving the neighbor's kittens, and this was a test of my humanity, in some ways, whether I could take compassionate care of an animal. I was tested: they ran behind the dishwasher, first thing, and wouldn't come out except when I wasn't there, to eat and use the box. I stalked them for days until I could board up their access hole. Then I had to bathe them in dishwashing soap because they were dirty and crawling with vermin of some kind, and they were too young to use any flea treatments on. I got them vet care: they had health insurance when even I didn't have any. I held them down and pilled them. I couldn't clip their nails, though: I'd cut my son's once when he was a baby and made him bleed, so I didn't trust myself clipping anyone other than myself.

We trusted each other, but they never became completely tame the way other people's cats do: we cohabitated. Before I had a chance to have Nicky neutered, I moved from Florida to New Jersey to take a contract, and we shared a hotel room for over a month before finding an apartment. Later they moved with me to Brooklyn, where they were considered exotic beasts on display whenever they napped in the window. Finally, they came with me to western Massachusetts. In our first, temporary housing situation, Nick shared run of the house with three other cats, the two of us humans, and the three humans who own the other three cats—all male—while Summer crouched, terrified, under our futon. For all of her life, her brother Nicky herded her around like a stupid child (my partner Kevin called her "closer to nature"), but after we moved into the Den of All Beings Male, Nicky gave up his nursemaid duties to run with the boys. Summer couldn't take all the mishigos of all those male things pissing and hissing everywhere, and hid under the bed until her death January 13, 2005 of liver failure. She was almost five years old when she died.

Losing Summer was a low note in a bittersweet winter: I was excited about living in a more natural setting and friendlier community, but I was also jobless and living in someone else's house. With her death I went through a full cycle of pet stewardship.

We moved into our own home late the following summer, and in the fall we adopted a kitten, Oscar, from an animal shelter. Nicky had been going crazy adjusting first to living with many cats, and then none, and needed feline company. The two get along beautifully, rarely fighting. Oscar grew up being handled much more than Nick did, and after a year of observing us with Oscar, Nicky is becoming friendlier to being held. I guess old cats can learn new tricks, sufficiently motivated, same as old dogs.

Updated 11/25/2006