Back on February 5, 2000, Rob took me to the Humane Society in Missoula, Montana. When we arrived, he instructed me to pick out a cat. For those of you who know me, I looove cats. For those of you who know Rob, he does not. So this was huge. But, since I am a good girl and always (insert giggle here) do what I am told, I proceeded to find a kitty.
It was actually Rob who pointed out Crosby, a cute little white kitty with a tabby tail and head. He was in the infirmary, hanging out with the sick kitties while fighting off a cold. Jackpot.
Crosby was estimated to be about two years old, an alley cat, a scar on his ear to prove it. Huge, about 16 pounds. Big, bright eyes. Beautiful. Crosby was going home with us.
It took no time at all for Rob to change his name to Remington P Cat, Remi for short. He made himself right at home and has been taking up all the best seats in the house ever since. He is extremely spoiled, loves his treats, demands his breakfast, sleeps wherever he wants, loves clean clothes. He’s always quick with a purr when you need it.
At 14, Remi is about 80 human years, but you would never know it. He is just as spry as a kitten and as sassy as a teenager. He is an amazingly wonderful cat, and I am grateful every day that he picked us. I couldn’t imagine life without him.
How has Rob adjusted to having a cat around all these years? He loves Remi. He may never admit it, but I know it is true. I see him pet Remi when he doesn’t think anyone is watching, and I know he complains when Remi sleeps on his black jacket only so that I won’t think that he really likes it, which I know he does. Truth be told, it is impossible not to love Remi, even for a person who swears that he doesn’t like cats…
Happy Birthday, Mr. P. Sure do love you, Kitty.