In 2009, we ended up adopting four completely unrelated kittens. This is the story of one of them. There’s also Cleo’s story, previously written in the post “The Cat Who Came In From the Cold.”
Our vet is a cranky old Georgia country dude. We are on opposite sides of the political spectrum—I am pretty sure he voted for Romney, is a Tea Party type and considers Obamacare a blight on his freedom—but he’s a damned good vet with reasonable prices and a real love for animals. In late November, 2009, my little black cat with a white thoing, Morgana Le Fay, was getting a cold. Since she’d had trouble before with respiratory infections, we took her to see Doctor Montgomery. He wasn’t in, but one of his associates named Chris was on duty. We love Chrisd—imagine Grizzly Adams ar 5’6” and you have him. He had a look at Morgana, prescribed meds, which the vet tech, a girl named Samantha who is Goth and Wiccan (I identified her Thor’s hammer, and we became friends) brought in the current crop of kittens to be admired, and told us their story.
Doctor M. was finishing up some paperwork in his office in the back when he heard a car drive up and the door to his clinic opened. He got up and headed pout, just as the door closed and a car pulled away. Inside was a full-grown little Tuxedo and a black and white jellicle kitten. He could hear frantic meows outside and opened the door to find two more kittens, a black shorthair and long-haired tuxedo. Despite his political stance, he’s a marshmallow where stray are concerned, and there are always kittens up for adoption at his clinic. He gathered them up and took a look at them. Mom had a respiratory problem and the little black one had an abcess. He gave Mom the antibiotics she needed to start on, and scheduled the little black biy for surgery the next morning. The other two he put in a cage and gave all of them some food.
These were the kittens Samantha brought in to us. I took the little black shorthair since I figured that was safest—we had aopted a very similar kitten in May, so I hoped I would not succumb to kitten charms (I am a sucker for kittens). Myhsuband took the longhaired tuxedo.
And when The Packhorse (aka Mr. irishwitch) got that kitten in his arms, something magical happened. He began to tear up. The only other time I’ve seen him do this was with Mikei, the Japanese bobtail we lost in February). But something about this kitten, named Hagrid by the staff because as Samantha told us, “he’s the fuzziest kitten ever and he’s so big,” got to my husband. He just cuddled in trustingly and made silent meows.
But we didn’t need another kitten., We’d Lost Illya in August at age 20, and we’d already taken another stray from the vet—so we had 2 kittens for a total of 5 cats. Which was 2 more than we’d planned on having.
Reluctantly, he handed the kitten back to Samantha and we headed out.
Over dinner, I talked to him and it became obvious that he and the kitten had meshed. He wanted that kitten desperately. I finally told him that if he and Hagrid were such a good fit, it was meant to be—and he’d better call the vet the next day and tell them that Hagrid had a home. He agreed but said that the kitten was to be his only Christmas present. That was a Tuesday. On Wednesday, Samantha dropped off Hagrid.
My husband announced, “His name is D’Artagnan,” as he took the kitten from Sam.
I’d rather liked Hagriud as a name myself but it was HIS kitten, so I asked, “Why?”
Because he has boots.”
I hadn’t noticed it at the vet’s but he had. The newly named D’Artagnan had white gloves on his front feet, but the white went all the way up his legs, like a pair of thigh-high boots. Moreover the way his white ruff and belly stripe ran, he looked like a Cavalier-era rake with a lace collar and his doublet buttoned in only one blace, showing off the lace and ruffles of his shirt. He had a white chin and large white whiskers, like a Cavalier’s beard. He looked French—if he’d had a human voice, it would have sounded like Louis Jordan. He was beautiful, the sort of kitten you see on Hallmark cards, sitting in a basket with a red bow around his necks. I strongly suspect he’s half Maine Coon because of his size, his body type, his sturdy legs with fuzzy toes, and the shape of his head with wide-set ears. I have had a Maine Coon before, and he definitely had some of that breed in his bloodline.
And he was shy and very sweet. Until he noticed that Annie, a month older than him but as small for her age as D’Artagnan was for his (he was quite a bit larger than his short-haired, sleek brothers). He advanced on her, and she hissed at him and swatted him. He backed up and thought about it, and then advanced on her again. Took three rounds before he got the message: “I may be small but I am FIERCE!” He and she still squabble occasionally, and she usually wins.
We learned very quickly that our debonair Musketeer was terrified of thunder and fireworks. The first time we had a thunderstorm, he crept into my husband’s lap and just trembled. If he can’t find my husband he hides in the en suite bathtub. He also adopted Torachan, our large brown tabby who was 14 when they met. He follows Tora everywhere, and Tora was incredibly good with him. When the kitten would lag behind, Tora would stop to let him catch up. He was teaching how to be a cat by example, something Tora hadn’t done with Pookie, the oldest of the 4 kittens who joined us that year.
That first Christmas was the year we made the transition from real tree to fake. Real; ttrees are expensive her, and if you wait till ,id-December, the needles are falling off and there’s little to choose from. A fake tree didn’t deter D’Artagnan, who climbed it anyway. He also had a grand time with the lower level ornament, particularly one jumping jack in the shape of a soldier. He would regularly remove it from the tree and knock it around, or else just pull on the strong and watch the legs and arms move. We long ago learned to place only non-breakable ornaments –wood, resin, stuffed toys—within reach of the cats. Unfortunately as the cats grew, the area that must be cat-proofed has expanded because D’Artagnan fulfilled m,y suspicions and grew to Maine Coon size.
He’s four now, and despite being Ben’s Christmas present, he has a slight preference for me. Like many Maine Coons, he remains shy and isn’t a lap cat, though he likes to sit with you on the couch if you’re reading. He tells you if he wants to be petted in that tiny chirpy voice Maine Coons have, and will stand on your lap. If he wants petting and you’re in bed sleeping, he’ll stand on your chest, and pat your chin or cheek until you wake up to do him homage. He’s grown into a magnificent cat, over 20 pounds and tall enough that if he stands on his hind legs, he can rest his chin on the kitchen table. I’d love to be able to show him off to visitors, but he still hides from strangers.
He arrived the day before Thanksgiving, but this kitten was a Christmas present—and my husband says he was the best present ever.
Merry Christmas and a belated Happy Solstice from the irishwitch household, including Torachan, Pookie, Anne Bonney, D'Artagnan and Cleocatra.