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#1
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A Life
I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I
didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind the crazy old lady's house across the street.) One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out. So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one day I closed the door on him when he went in. He went ****ing berserk. He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there. I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea (fortunately he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd along to the vet to check for worms. At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They spelled it wrong: "42". Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be more docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put on my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really really hard. The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and I got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the following week. Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him on my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred, squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for him to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat project is looking for him too. I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but start to love them. http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG John Kimmel |
#2
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I was sympathetic, but ok until I saw your pics on the Net......now a few
tears come for old Forty-Two. He's purring at the RB with all his new friends there and won't get mats in his fur anymore. You gave him love here on earth. Some cats never know love. "Gizela" u wrote in message ... : Oh. That was lovely : : Purrs for forty-two being vibrated your way : : Angela and Gizmo : : "John Kimmel" wrote in message : .204... : I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I : didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. : Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog : killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all : accounted for. : : I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat : had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started : noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise : that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind : the crazy old lady's house across the street.) : : One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided : I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to : tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on : the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out. : : So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in : front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and : closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So : far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one : day : I closed the door on him when he went in. : : He went ****ing berserk. : : He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked : over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became : saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may : have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a : while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and : water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there. : : I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep : him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea : (fortunately : he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started : eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his : first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd : along to the vet to check for worms. : : At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They : spelled it wrong: "42". : : Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him : home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very : comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be : more : docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put : on : my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really : really : hard. : : The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and : I : got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The : antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the : following week. : : Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him : on : my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred, : squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him : in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for : him : to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is : underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat : project is looking for him too. : : I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but : start to love them. : : http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG : http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG : : : John Kimmel : : : |
#3
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I am so very sorry for your loss. Forty-two was indeed lucky to have had you
in his life. Purrs to accompany him to the Bridge. Christine "John Kimmel" wrote in message .204... I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind the crazy old lady's house across the street.) One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out. So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one day I closed the door on him when he went in. He went ****ing berserk. He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there. I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea (fortunately he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd along to the vet to check for worms. At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They spelled it wrong: "42". Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be more docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put on my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really really hard. The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and I got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the following week. Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him on my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred, squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for him to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat project is looking for him too. I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but start to love them. http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG John Kimmel |
#4
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I am so sorry. Poor little Forty-two. At least he knew a bit of love
in his life. Purrs that his journey to the Bridge be gentle and swift. Blessings, Ginger-lyn On Wed, 24 Sep 2003 04:58:08 GMT, John Kimmel wrote: I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind the crazy old lady's house across the street.) One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out. So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one day I closed the door on him when he went in. He went ****ing berserk. He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there. I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea (fortunately he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd along to the vet to check for worms. At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They spelled it wrong: "42". Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be more docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put on my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really really hard. The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and I got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the following week. Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him on my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred, squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for him to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat project is looking for him too. I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but start to love them. http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG John Kimmel |
#5
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On Wed, 24 Sep 2003 04:58:08 GMT, John Kimmel
wrote: I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. snip So sorry to hear about your loss. Lighting a candle to guide Fourty-two to the RB, and soothing purrs of comfort coming to you. |
#6
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"John Kimmel" wrote in message .204... I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind the crazy old lady's house across the street.) One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out. So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one day I closed the door on him when he went in. He went ****ing berserk. He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there. I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea (fortunately he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd along to the vet to check for worms. At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They spelled it wrong: "42". Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be more docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put on my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really really hard. The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and I got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the following week. Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him on my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred, squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for him to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat project is looking for him too. I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but start to love them. http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG John Kimmel bless you for caring. Brenda |
#7
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That is so very sad!
Purrs, -- Polonca & Soncek "John Kimmel" wrote in message .204... I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. snip |
#8
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"John Kimmel" wrote in message .204... I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. I hope you're wrong, John. I've also become involved with feral cats and about the best I can offer is: you do what you can for them. Cheers, Jack |
#9
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On Wed, 24 Sep 2003 04:58:08 GMT, John Kimmel
wrote: I spent this evening waiting for Forty-two to come and get his dinner. I didn't expect him to show up, which is why I was waiting, I guess. Yesterday morning at 4 am I awoke to a cat screaming as my neighbor's dog killed it. I think it was Forty-two since the other strays are all accounted for. I became a cat owner for the first time four years ago when a friend's cat had kittens. I took two, Flinx and Pip. That changed me, I started noticing other cats in the neighborhood, and then realized to my surprise that most of them were strays. (Most of them are from a cat colony behind the crazy old lady's house across the street.) One of them started coming through my yard pretty regularly, and I decided I wanted to domesticate him. I didn't think it would be too difficult to tame him and then find a nice home for him. Then I could start working on the rest of the strays. I had it all figured out. So I put out food for him, I started coaxing him by tossing kibbles in front of him and making a trail of kibble for him to follow closer and closer to me. Eventually I got him to come close enough to touch him. So far so good. I started putting his food in a cat carrier, and then one day I closed the door on him when he went in. He went ****ing berserk. He howled, the box was bounced around as he charged the door. He knocked over the water bowl and the food bowl and then ****ed, his fur became saturated with the mixture. He bit at the door wire and I think he may have broken a tooth. I brought him into the house, let him set for a while, then released him into my office where I had a litter box, food and water for him. He went into the closet and stayed there. I made an appointment with the vet to have him neutered, but I had to keep him for a week. He didn't eat for four days. He had diarrhea (fortunately he used the litter box), and he stayed in the closet. Finally he started eating, and the night before I took him to the vet, he pinched off his first real turd. Outside the litterbox, of course. I brought the turd along to the vet to check for worms. At the vet, they needed a name for him, so I said "Forty-two". They spelled it wrong: "42". Didn't have really good post-op instructions from the vet. I brought him home and turned him loose in the office. He staggered around in a very comical manner and I thought: "Hmm, in his drugged state, he might be more docile. I may be able to clear some of the mats out of his fur". I put on my welding gloves. He bit my thumb, right through the glove, really really hard. The vet's bill was forty-two dollars. When my thumb became infected, and I got a fever of 106°F, the doctor's bill was forty-two dollars. The antibiotic prescription was forty-two dollars. Douglas Adams died the following week. Three years later, last Sunday night, I picked up Forty-two and held him on my lap for a few seconds and he didn't castrate me. He just purred, squirmed away. Sat right in front of me on the porch. Now I look for him in his spot on the porch, or in his other favorite spots, or I wait for him to come walking down the sidewalk for his dinner. His ping pong ball is underneath a table by the door. His buddy, "Shadow", my second feral cat project is looking for him too. I try not to care too much about these stray cats, but you can't help but start to love them. http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we.../forty-two.JPG http://home.teleport.com/~guynoir/we...ock/shadow.JPG John Kimmel Did you find his remains? if not, he may be hiding somewhere injured. I hate dogs that kill cats. MLB |
#10
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"m. L. Briggs" wrote in message ... On Wed, 24 Sep 2003 04:58:08 GMT, John Kimmel wrote: [[[[[[[[[snip]]]]]]]]]] Did you find his remains? if not, he may be hiding somewhere injured. Good point. --JB I hate dogs that kill cats. MLB Not so fast. You know darn well it is the nature of animals to defend their turf against all intruders, whether they are cats or an endangered species. It's one thing, if an owner sics his animal on another, but, when a neighbor's cat feels it can push a German Shepard away from his food dish, what do you advocate as the approved response? Relax, my dog didn't kill the cat, although he could have quite easily. What he did do was pick the cat up and heave it against the fence, a distance of about 15 feet. The cat never repeated the mistake, or came in the yard again. There's the dog's viewpoint too, and you don't know what the situation was. Regards, Jack PS--Incidentally, my dog weighed 140 pounds, stood 30 inches at the withers, and could carry a football (or imprudent cat) in his mouth. |
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