Cowboy was a cat, probably the most special cat I’ve ever had. He loved me and I loved him. When he and his brother were only a few inches long, the two of them lay in their owner’s hand. The owner of the kittens told me, if you don’t take them … and he made a motion as if he would close his hand and squish them. Of course he wouldn’t really do that, but the cats’ lives were at stake.

I took the two cats and named them after two boys that I had taught back in those long ago days. Their mother had called her children by the nicknames, Cowboy and Shorty. I liked the names, and thought it would be perfect for these cat brothers too.

We may meet Shorty in a later post when I get to the letter S.

 

Cowboy thought he owned me. As you can see, he has claimed my knee in this photo.

When I brushed my teeth in the bathroom of our very small starter home, Cowboy would jump up onto the toilet lid and from there up onto my back as I bent over the sink. He got comfortable on my shoulders and then stretched his head around the side of my face so he could lick the toothpaste off my cheek and chin.

I guess it had that same minty flavour of the catnip in our garden that sometimes had him doing backflips out there.

He didn’t like to be left behind if I went for a walk down the field below our house. He would follow behind, trying to catch up, hoping for permission to come along, by calling out, “AllOW! … AllOW! … AllOW! (He had a bit of Siamese in him and was able to make that sound of a baby crying.)

So of course I would allow him to come along.

He lived for 13 and a half years, and it was nowhere near long enough. I still miss him.