Happy Birthday, George!

Today is George's third birthday. At least, that's what I've decided. Last year around this time I decided that I was going to rescue (steal) him from the nasty woman who lived upstairs from me at the time. She didn't take care of him, and she let her son torment him constantly. Poor thing would be outside in the middle of the night in the dead of winter, crying at my door.

I had named him George when I first began seeing him outside my apartment. We bonded immediately. He has always been affectionate and loving. For a while, I would let him come in for a couple hours at a time, give him some food and water, and maybe even some nip. (As a result, I was soon known by all the neighborhood felines as the kitty drug dealer, and my patio became a popular hangout.) He would often curl up on the couch next to me as I graded papers or watched a movie. We were buds. Not having a litter box or a decent place for him to sleep (like that matters - he'll sleep ANYWHERE), I would have to put him out again eventually. I would feel awful every time, and he would stand at my patio door and cry. One night, my vertical blinds were crooked in one spot, and he peeked through the little sliver of exposed window, just his one eye showing, staring at me and crying. "I can still see you. . . can you still see me?"

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore. He told me very clearly he wanted to live with me. I borrowed a litter box from my parents and set him up real nice in my office. But before I let him move in for good, I took him to the vet for a checkup and shots. That was one year ago today. Dr. Wendy said that George was perfectly healthy and "very handsome"! Yay! She also estimated his age as two years old. So, I decided to make St. Patrick's Day his birthday and mark today, officially, as his third birthday.

So, happy birthday George. Maybe as a gift, we'll get you a bigger box.