Before there was Dylan, there was Burton. This is Burton in 1997, not long before he died. By that time, he was nearly blind and diabetic, with his blood sugar doing an uncontrollable roller coaster ride. He was also in kidney failure. My poor Burtie.
When I moved to Florida with Xman, we had temporary housing in a furnished apartment while we waited for our little house to be built. We had moved down from Jersey with what we thought was a staggering four cats in tow. (Beezer, Garf, George Bunny Brindley-Flopsy, and Jennie.)
The apartment was on the ground level with a wonderful little patio out back. The complex was overrun with cats. Because the complex was temporary housing for a lot of people, they would get cats or briefly take in strays, only to dump them without spaying or neutering them before they moved on, leaving the cats behind.
One night as we were coming home from dinner, a slim streak of black and white dashed behind the shrubs. "That's the kitten I was telling you about," he said. "The one who came to the patio window and just stayed there."
A few days went past and I saw the kitten at the window. When I opened the door to put out a can of food, he ran away, but he came back. I didn't get to touch him at all.
Then an edict went out across the complex that all the cats left out on an April night would be rounded up and taken to the pound.
I was frantic as the days ticked by. This kitten, that I'd named Bandit, still wouldn't let me touch him but he was eating on the patio every night or every other night.
On the night before the cat roundup, I hadn't seen Bandit for at least two days. There had been a big mean tom challenging all comers to my door.
On the night of the roundup, I went outside to the patio. I had a can of food in front of me. Xman at one point asked me how long I was going to sit out there, but he had to know I wasn't going in until I had Bandit.
It wasn't long before the black and white kitten stuck his head around the patio gate. Tentatively, he walked toward me and began to eat. I didn't move. I barely breathed. My legs had gone to sleep.
He ate as kittens do, convinced they'll never eat again. I waited. If he moved to go off the patio, I was prepared to grab him.
Instead, he finished the food, looked up at me and climbed into my lap. He gave a great sighing purr and settled in across my lap. When I touched him, he rolled over on his side.
For fourteen years, Burton was my cat. Every night, he went to bed when I did. Every night, he settled in, cuddled up against my chest. Every night, I heard that sighing purr and knew that everything was right with the world. At least, it was all right with Burtie and me.
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