Oliver

This is Oliver. He is 9 years old.  I'll explain the picture in a minute, but first let me tell you Oliver's story.  When Oliver was only 6 weeks old his house was hit by lightening and it burned down.  His family at the time had to move out quickly into a shelter and Oliver could not go.  I knew his family because they lived across the street from me.  He was so cute and playful I told my neighbors that I would take care of him for a little while.  I didn't see them again for over 3 months and by that time he had grown a lot and had been spayed (or is it neutered?).   Oliver lived on the back porch for a little while because I already had 2 cats and a dog.  My children, however, wanted to play with Oliver so they let him in.  Oliver had other ideas.  He wanted to play with the dog, Wilma.  Those two were so silly.  They would chase each other around the house.  Oliver would grab Wilma's tail and be dragged through the kitchen.  Sometimes Oliver would wrap his paws around Wilma's neck and she would run around trying, not very hard, to shake him off.  

A few years later, another dog was introduced, Angel.  Angel was a German shepherd.  Oliver and Angel played like brother and sister.  Angel would playfully insert Oliver's head into her mouth and give him a nice bath, with her teeth.   Not once did Angel hurt the goofy cat.   Wilma was older and slower by then, not as much fun as Angel.  By the way, Oliver did not play with the other two cats.  They were normal.  They did not like dogs and barely tolerated humans.  Angel and Oliver chasing and playing with each other was a sight to see! Sometimes it looked like Angel, who was at least 70 pounds heaver, was afraid of the cat. 

My mom sent me a book one year, as a gag, titled "How to Potty Train Your Cats."  You know what?  It works!  Well, it worked for Oliver.  The oldest cat, Wimpy, had passed at the ripe old age of 18, so I was left with a litter box for 2.   I followed the book, step by step.  Oliver dug right in.  He thought it was fun.  Sally, my fat calico, gave it her best shot, reluctantly.  In the end I had to resort back to the litter box because you can only have one or the other so the book says.   Oliver had the toilet down.  He would jump up, do his business and scamper away proudly.  Sally, not so much.  Reluctantly, the litter box returned. 

A few years later, Oliver became bulimic.   He made many, many trips to the vet.  I changed his food, the way he eats, when he eats.  Still, he's bulimic.  He eats and often gives it back. He is better now that we got the automatic feeder.  

Fast forward a few more years.   Both dogs have passed away.  Oliver's playmates have gone.  Sally is fatter and lazier than ever.  Who does Oliver turn to?  Who is his playmate now? Me.

Oliver is now my shadow.  He follows me everywhere I go.  When I open my door in the morning I hear not a creak but a 'meow'.  (He was banned from the bed when I got married the poor thing).  Oliver sits on my lap, see first picture, behind me, on my desk and at my feet.  He watches me run on the treadmill and even tries to join me.  He nibbles on my ankles when he is hungry even though we have the automatic feeder.  He sits on my lap every time I have a lap and drives my husband crazy.  Yesterday, he was batting at my headphones trying to get my attention.  And yes, he even follows me into the bathroom and wants to sit on my lap there.  When I open the shower door he jumps right in, often getting wet in the process.  

** Picture 1 is Oliver on my lap while I am trying to work.  Picture 2 is him sitting behind me while I am trying to work.  I could not find the one of him sitting on my monitor with his tail in the way.  Picture 3 is Oliver and Sally trying to stay warm. They are Florida cats and do not like the cold. 

I think Oliver needs a pet.  Or maybe a shiny new toy will suffice.  Still, he's cute and loveable - most of the time.