I suppose that featuring only one of my beloved pets on my blog is a little cruel. Two hairy critters share the dollhouse with me, and it’s about time Leroy gets a little attention –besides the attention he is getting purring on my lap at the moment.
Leroy is special because he is the baby of my momma’s cat back home on the farm. I took him home when he was a little bit too young to leave his mother, Dusty, because the coyotes were starting to pick off his siblings. Such is life in the country. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and a dog-eat-everything-else world too. Dusty was spayed soon after, so Leroy is one of her last kittens.
His name comes from the Jim Croce song, “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” My Leroy really is bad (bad). He loves to eat my hair elastics and then puke up pieces of them mixed with half-digested cat food in random places in the dollhouse. Yup, badder than Old King Kong.
Leroy is loving too, and always ready to snuggle up in a lap, even if doing so puts footprints across my dinner or makes it impossible to continue whatever I’m doing on my laptop. He takes it as a personal affront if I am doing something that is more important that petting him, like making dinner or marking papers. In his mind, he is the king, the end-all-be-all, the Grand Poobah, and all laps are his and his alone.
Now that spring is edging up to us, Leroy is generally perched on the back of the couch, watching the birds eat the seed bells I hang in the tree just outside the window. He’ll sit for hours, chattering at them, and sounding like no cat I’ve ever met. He seems generally alarmed by the winged creatures in our yard. He’s doing one of two things with his feline morse code: either telling the sparrow and chickadees to get the heck off his property or inviting them in for lunch. Step into my parlor…
If you ever want a snuggle with a cat who purrs like a John Deere, and sheds more hair than the average balding St. Bernard, come on by. I suggest you forgo black pants.
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