"I am the cat who walks by himself." - Rudyard Kipling
One day, I received a phone call from a friend: her grandmother's kitty had had a litter of twelve, and the mama hadn't milk enough for so many babies. Could we help? Of course I couldn't say no, and my husband and I wound up bottle feeding a pair of little babies, every four hours, around the clock. Eventually we found a home for one, and kept the other, a goofy looking little thing that had a habit of looking you over like he thought you were a "whatisit" yourself.
Since he was a clever boy, we of course named him Knothead. As a kitten, everything he had, feet, ears, eyes, was too big, but as he grew to cathood, our Knothead became quite a handsome fellow. He also became an independent sort, very much the cat Kipling wrote of. He never much hobnobbed with the other kitties, keeping his own routine. A silent kitty, we seldom heard his meow, but his meows always had significance, for he was our watch cat. Let anything he didn't like the look of get in the yard, be it a neighbor's cat, a stray dog, a 'possum, or another human, and he would let us know, meowing and leading us to the appropriate window.
Once a day, he had to be petted, the time for it announced by his hopping up on the dining table or on the arm of your recliner and staring at you. His purr was a big rumble, sort of like a diesel idling. After that, he would repair to the screened-in porch, where he slept in the same spot - the fur on his hindquarters became sunbleached because he put only his head in the shade. Or, he'd go out into the back yard and find a nice spot on the back deck, or on the seat of the riding mower, for more napping. Only in cold weather would he get sociable, seeking another of our kitties to curl up with for a long winter's nap.
He had been in excellent health his whole life, his trips to the Vet - where he behaved admirably well, being routine. At the end of July, 2010, he suddenly quit eating and moved slowly about the house, as if looking for a special spot but not finding it, eventually just plopping down in the kitchen floor and meowing. The Vet spoke of internal bleeding and did what he could, but our Knothead crossed the Rainbow Bridge early the next day.
We will always miss our independent boy. He walked by himself, but he always let us know he loved us.
Cats = pure love!
Special thanks to Hans for the lovely frame for Knothead's picture!
One day, I received a phone call from a friend: her grandmother's kitty had had a litter of twelve, and the mama hadn't milk enough for so many babies. Could we help? Of course I couldn't say no, and my husband and I wound up bottle feeding a pair of little babies, every four hours, around the clock. Eventually we found a home for one, and kept the other, a goofy looking little thing that had a habit of looking you over like he thought you were a "whatisit" yourself.
Since he was a clever boy, we of course named him Knothead. As a kitten, everything he had, feet, ears, eyes, was too big, but as he grew to cathood, our Knothead became quite a handsome fellow. He also became an independent sort, very much the cat Kipling wrote of. He never much hobnobbed with the other kitties, keeping his own routine. A silent kitty, we seldom heard his meow, but his meows always had significance, for he was our watch cat. Let anything he didn't like the look of get in the yard, be it a neighbor's cat, a stray dog, a 'possum, or another human, and he would let us know, meowing and leading us to the appropriate window.
Once a day, he had to be petted, the time for it announced by his hopping up on the dining table or on the arm of your recliner and staring at you. His purr was a big rumble, sort of like a diesel idling. After that, he would repair to the screened-in porch, where he slept in the same spot - the fur on his hindquarters became sunbleached because he put only his head in the shade. Or, he'd go out into the back yard and find a nice spot on the back deck, or on the seat of the riding mower, for more napping. Only in cold weather would he get sociable, seeking another of our kitties to curl up with for a long winter's nap.
He had been in excellent health his whole life, his trips to the Vet - where he behaved admirably well, being routine. At the end of July, 2010, he suddenly quit eating and moved slowly about the house, as if looking for a special spot but not finding it, eventually just plopping down in the kitchen floor and meowing. The Vet spoke of internal bleeding and did what he could, but our Knothead crossed the Rainbow Bridge early the next day.
We will always miss our independent boy. He walked by himself, but he always let us know he loved us.
Cats = pure love!
Special thanks to Hans for the lovely frame for Knothead's picture!
"I am the cat who walks by himself." - Rudyard Kipling
One day, I received a phone call from a friend: her grandmother's kitty had had a litter of twelve, and the mama hadn't milk enough for so many babies. Could we help? Of course I couldn't say no, and my husband and I wound up bottle feeding a pair of little babies, every four hours, around the clock. Eventually we found a home for one, and kept the other, a goofy looking little thing that had a habit of looking you over like he thought you were a "whatisit" yourself.
Since he was a clever boy, we of course named him Knothead. As a kitten, everything he had, feet, ears, eyes, was too big, but as he grew to cathood, our Knothead became quite a handsome fellow. He also became an independent sort, very much the cat Kipling wrote of. He never much hobnobbed with the other kitties, keeping his own routine. A silent kitty, we seldom heard his meow, but his meows always had significance, for he was our watch cat. Let anything he didn't like the look of get in the yard, be it a neighbor's cat, a stray dog, a 'possum, or another human, and he would let us know, meowing and leading us to the appropriate window.
Once a day, he had to be petted, the time for it announced by his hopping up on the dining table or on the arm of your recliner and staring at you. His purr was a big rumble, sort of like a diesel idling. After that, he would repair to the screened-in porch, where he slept in the same spot - the fur on his hindquarters became sunbleached because he put only his head in the shade. Or, he'd go out into the back yard and find a nice spot on the back deck, or on the seat of the riding mower, for more napping. Only in cold weather would he get sociable, seeking another of our kitties to curl up with for a long winter's nap.
He had been in excellent health his whole life, his trips to the Vet - where he behaved admirably well, being routine. At the end of July, 2010, he suddenly quit eating and moved slowly about the house, as if looking for a special spot but not finding it, eventually just plopping down in the kitchen floor and meowing. The Vet spoke of internal bleeding and did what he could, but our Knothead crossed the Rainbow Bridge early the next day.
We will always miss our independent boy. He walked by himself, but he always let us know he loved us.
Cats = pure love!
Special thanks to Hans for the lovely frame for Knothead's picture!
One day, I received a phone call from a friend: her grandmother's kitty had had a litter of twelve, and the mama hadn't milk enough for so many babies. Could we help? Of course I couldn't say no, and my husband and I wound up bottle feeding a pair of little babies, every four hours, around the clock. Eventually we found a home for one, and kept the other, a goofy looking little thing that had a habit of looking you over like he thought you were a "whatisit" yourself.
Since he was a clever boy, we of course named him Knothead. As a kitten, everything he had, feet, ears, eyes, was too big, but as he grew to cathood, our Knothead became quite a handsome fellow. He also became an independent sort, very much the cat Kipling wrote of. He never much hobnobbed with the other kitties, keeping his own routine. A silent kitty, we seldom heard his meow, but his meows always had significance, for he was our watch cat. Let anything he didn't like the look of get in the yard, be it a neighbor's cat, a stray dog, a 'possum, or another human, and he would let us know, meowing and leading us to the appropriate window.
Once a day, he had to be petted, the time for it announced by his hopping up on the dining table or on the arm of your recliner and staring at you. His purr was a big rumble, sort of like a diesel idling. After that, he would repair to the screened-in porch, where he slept in the same spot - the fur on his hindquarters became sunbleached because he put only his head in the shade. Or, he'd go out into the back yard and find a nice spot on the back deck, or on the seat of the riding mower, for more napping. Only in cold weather would he get sociable, seeking another of our kitties to curl up with for a long winter's nap.
He had been in excellent health his whole life, his trips to the Vet - where he behaved admirably well, being routine. At the end of July, 2010, he suddenly quit eating and moved slowly about the house, as if looking for a special spot but not finding it, eventually just plopping down in the kitchen floor and meowing. The Vet spoke of internal bleeding and did what he could, but our Knothead crossed the Rainbow Bridge early the next day.
We will always miss our independent boy. He walked by himself, but he always let us know he loved us.
Cats = pure love!
Special thanks to Hans for the lovely frame for Knothead's picture!
