Your Pet Did What???Tell Me, Tell Me!!

his name is Puck, and he runs this nuthouse. don't think he doesn't know it, either.

when i went out that Saturday in November three years ago, all i knew was that i was going to come home with a boy kitten. after calling the numbers of a few "free to good home" classified ads and not reaching anyone, i ended up at an adopt-a-thon at a local pet store.

the group was Best Friends Pet Adoptions, and their volunteers fostered animals in order to get them used to the idea of living in a real home. it helps the adjustment for strays and stuff. he was the last boy kitten left, a little black ball of fur who, along with his brother and sister, was rescued from under a fence near an electrical substation. he was all of three months old. when the volunteer put him in my hands, he began a low, happy purr that vibrated his whole body, and i knew right then that he was coming home with me.

it's not so much that i named him as that his name was Puck from the beginning, and i just happened to find it out. it suits him well on several levels. like a hockey puck, he's all black and he never stops moving. he's still very kittenish, even at three years old. he's also much like the wood sprite in Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream: impish and prone to making trouble.

he has an undying love for plastic milk cap rings and an uncanny rubber band radar. if there's a lonely rubber band in a drawer, he won't rest until he makes it his. he's a large cat trapped in a small cat's body and he walks like a pugilist. his front legs are bowed outward. picture the bulldog from those old Warner Brothers/Merrie Melodies catoons, and that's how he moves.

he doesn't so much enter a room as announce his presence. most cats will slink through a cracked-open door, taking only as much room as they need. Puck will stand on his hind legs and push a door open with his front paws, as if to say, "here i am! love me now!" and love him we do.

offer him your finger, and he'll nibble on it. if you try to take your hand away before he's ready, he'll reach out with his front paws and grab it. let him too close to your nose, and he'll wash it for you with his rough sandpaper tongue. call his name, and he might come running... if, that is, he thinks there's something in it for him. and your lap? if you sit there long enough, he'll make it his. sneeze, and he'll tell you exactly what he thinks of you in no uncertain terms.

of all the cats we've owned, he is likely the smartest. he's certainly the most spoiled. and he wouldn't have it any other way.