Meet Oliver. I probably have mentioned him in prior post but I think it is time for him to be properly introduced. Let's just start by saying, he's one hell of a cat. While I think every animal is amazing and special, Oliver is really special. The abuse he endures, and maybe, secretly enjoys is beyond what any animal should have to. He allows Jake and Chloe to use him as a pillow or teething toy and allows me to dress him up for my own amusement. On a regular basis. I know, I'm a cruel, cruel woman. As far as cats go, he's a dog. He lives for our ultimate happiness and to do figure eights through our legs as we walk with hot coffee. The only way he could be more perfect is if he could balance a pitcher of beer between his ears and pick up socks around the house. That would be awesome.
Life with Oliver all sort of started out unexpectedly. It was the day we got the keys to our first house which also happened to be my birthday. There he was, all alone and tiny in our newly acquired rose bushes. I already had two 1/2 cats (Clarence was 1 1/2) and really didn't have any desire for more. Plus, Jon hadn't had any pets or girlfriends living with him before that day so it was like going from 0-100 already. On top of the obvious weirdness of house + cat + birthday, my grandma passed away a few months before, and sadly, we had not exactly left things on the best of terms... long story. Anyway, she always had a penchant for orange strays. She sort of collected them and I've always liked to believe that Oliver was a peace offering from heaven. I don't believe in coincidences & there was just something a little odd about the timing of all this. I like to say that I'm a believer in miracles and that this qualifies as one and while that might categorize me as a total nutjob in some eyes, there are many other reasons I could fall into that category so lets not even go there. I'm happy with my little notions so just deal with it.
So, as I was saying, when I found him he was just sitting there in our rose bushes all alone, only 2 weeks old and crying his little kitty head off, it was a done deal. He stole my silly fool heart and immediately became a part of our family. With that decision, we got our first taste of life with a newborn. For the first few weeks, we had to bottle feed him every 2-3 hrs. and wipe his butthole to make him poop. Yep internet, I made the same face you're making when the vet told me I had to do that or he'd DIE. I guess mama cats lick, well, you know. ANYWAY, I remember doing that on the bathroom counter in the office I used to work at and a woman asked me once incredulously, "what are you doing to that poor kitten.", as if I was violating him in some way. Most of the time I just got strange looks but I didn't care. I was his mama and it's just one of those things you'd do for someone or something you love. I guess that's why he's such an amazing cat. He's always been so loved.
Would it be a stretch to call him a miracle? Maybe. Probably. If you would have ask me about that this morning while he was puking up my new house plant in the one room of the house with white carpet, I probably wouldn't have chosen to call him that. It was really a miracle that I didn't drop kick him out the back door. As naughty as that darn cat can be, there is going to be a special place in heaven for him.