Some people choose to celebrate their pet’s ‘adoptiversary’ the day they brought their new pet home from the shelter. In the case of cats it’s difficult to know when their birthday exactly is. Kittens seem to have the ability to suddenly appear, especially on the farm. I find that true in the city as well. First, you have a stray cat stealing hot dogs, the next thing you know little balls of fluff are wandering out from under the neighbor’s porch.
Bukowski wasn’t so much adopted as bailed from kitty jail and given to me as a companion. Something I needed, but was reluctant to take action on myself, because I didn’t realize just how much I needed it. The decision was made for me and the little fur ball moved in, put on a little weight and made himself comfortable. Time and time again, I am thankful for him. Just last night the little night wanderer reappeared after another anxiety dream. Dieter was in it and I had to tell my family all over again that he was gone. He was just an apparition and he wasn’t really there. Bukowski hopped up and squished himself against my leg until I could stifle my tears. Once I finally became drowsy he jumped off and resumed his night time escapades.
Today we celebrate his birthday, because of his namesake, Charles Bukowski, a rough edged, crass writer who had a soft spot for cats.
“The more cats you have, the longer you live. If you have a hundred cats, you’ll live ten times longer than if you have ten. Someday this will be discovered, and people will have a thousand cats and live forever.”
Charles BukowskiAugust 16, 1920-March 9, 1994