A TRIBUTE TO A 

GARBAGE CAN CAT

    She must have been a few months old when she wandered (or sort of lured) into my granddaughter's, Diane, Jacksonville, NC apartment back in 2007. She'd been one of those feral cats that roam around looking for food in dumpsters and garbage cans and seeking to survive in a cruel cat world. Of course, Diane already had a cat and knew she couldn't handle two, so "Who do you call?" answer of course "Grandma and Grandpa." That's how we adopted the kitten with certain restrictions such as, "What are you going to name her?" Diane already knew that Grandma and I leaned toward the more unusual types of animal names, like "Hootza!" or maybe "Obuma" or even "Dumpster." I knew I had to come up with an acceptable name or she  wouldn't release the cat to me, so "Muffin" became her name. 

     Now that I look back on that visit to Jacksonville, we should have named the cat "Ghost" because her survival instinct was so strong she could disappear from view in the blink of an eye. Muffin couldn't allow herself to really enjoy the pleasure of being petted for any length of time without retreating and coming back for another quick pass.

     I am overwhelmed with waves of sadness at the loss of this loyal little friend who adopted me and became a one man cat in spite of all her inner survival warning signs. On cold winter nights my little cat friend curled up under the covers at my knees and accompanied me on my frequent midnight toilet breaks to brush back and forth across my feet with accompanying tail-hugs.

    Muffin took on the self-appointed duty of making certain that all the other animals (including herself) were given treats at the proper time. If I delayed the morning treats, Muffin would find me and meow in a "get your butt in gear!" cat tone. She then would accompany me back to my favorite chair, hop up on the end table, and wait until each animal was given a treat. She would hop down from the table, go over and rub up against Bonnie (ignoring the meaningless growl), and go back to the table until little Bud, the Shitzu got his treat. Bud didn't get the cat rub, but she made certain he was enjoying the special event before jumping back on the table for her own handful of "Fishie's."

    There is no question in Grandma or my mind that God's perfect heaven will include our furry faced  friends who have gone on before us.