Paul and I believed Casper got in line twice for good looks, three times for 9 lives and skipped the smarts department. He got into more trouble and always broke the tape to the winner’s circle with a few scratches and bumps, but he came out. This time it took him to the other side of the sun. Daisy and Mina found him first, when Paul realized what and who they discovered, his heart fell to the ground and broke. I fell to the floor, shattered and inconsolable. He was 15, maybe? Too young.
He was a flirt. He would stare deeply into my eyes with his squishy face and give a wink of his right eye. I would be too distracted by his charm and extreme good looks to notice he was after the steamed milk sitting atop my coffee all along. He looked left. He looked right. Without moving a muscle… his prickly, pink tongue would slide into my mug and steal the froth!
Although it was never proven with DNA testing or photographic evidence, I remain firm in my belief Casper single-pawdedly took down the mighty and elusive Hillshire Farms Kielbasa and delivered this kill to our back door. He was a mighty hunter. A mighty, lazy hunter, maybe.
Every summer he would get his summer hair-do. To accomplish this new wig every year, Casper would endure a humiliating shave of almost his entire body. He looked like a pristine, ivory mini-lion. OK, he looked more like an angry Persian in Uggs. He was lanolin soft and so cuddly. If he was in need of his summer cut closer to the cooler months, he camped on an electric heating pad. He was very royal, a feline Little Lord Fauntleroy. Incidentally, we were asked by several PetsMarts to never return with that demon ball of spit, hellfire and claws of fury.
He loved to cuddle. He was my cuddlebug. Gawd forbid, anyone disturb him when he was doing so. He started a growl, which progressed into making muffins in some catatonic state. Muffin. Muffin. Muffin. Got to make muffin. Muffin. Muffin. Muffin. It could go on for hours and days, if he wanted. This was least adorable in the middle of sleeping. He would eventually settle and curl on my pillow on my head.
Such a talker, too. “Meh. Meh. Meh.” or “Mur. Mur. Mur.” He would go on benders in the cemetery for days. He would return to regale us with his adventures. He would return sometimes reeking of dog food and cheap perfume.
So put me on a highway…
And show me a sign…
And take it to the limit one
more time.
Rest well, my little man.
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