Thanks for the memories, you old orange furball.
A pic of cooney in his fat cat lush rolling days, a couple of years back. We could have gotten him a 2500 dollar bed, lined with the finest down, and filled to the brim with catnip, but he preferred to sleep in the damnedest places, like cardboard boxes:
Or the seat of stinky old work jeans.
I later discovered (it was revealed to me in a dream) that he wanted to make a present to me of as much fur as he could. In the past several years I expect he gave me around 30,000 lbs of it.
If I had to share a house with a cat, I’m glad it was this one.
Cooney lives on in Beuller and Peachy.
Forgot to add that they’re my two orange furballs. Or I’m their’s… I’m not sure which.
Thanks, Dick. Cooney had a full life and I hope we made it as good for him as it could be.
Aye, a fine box cat.
I live with one myself.
I am sorry for your loss.
MC
Everybody needs at least one Orange cat. We have had several over the years, and loved ’em all.
My orange cat loves to sleep either on my one armchair, which I assume smells like my butt (I don’t exactly check), or else on my stinky laundry, or else at the foot of my bed — where my feet go when I sleep. When she was a kitten she had a brother (long since dead, alas) who loved to dive into shoes face-first, the smellier the better. My older gray and black tabby currently likes her smelly pillow (which is going in the laundry as soon as I get around to doing it). Moral of the story? Cats love stinky smells. Neater than dogs? Shyeah, right.
I have a cat at my feet right this second that could be Cooney’s brother.
He is the Big Orange Clyde and sweet and funny and very goofy, as all big orange cats tend to be.
What cats tend to look for is stuff that smells like you — in all your stinkyness — it’s a comfort to them to smell you, even if you’re not in the immediate vicinity. Your dirty laundry will do until you get home and can feed and pet them. Or pet and feed them. Or pet them as you feed them.
Thanks for sharing. He was a neat cat.
Jenny
About 18 years ago, my wife brought home a little orange furball that had been born to one of her dad’s barn cats. I wasn’t crazy about animals living in the house, but she promised that I would never have to smell a litter box let alone clean one so I relented. We named him Bullet because he looked like a new copper jacket and he shot through the house like a little projectile. The long and short of it is that he was so easy to get along with that I changed my opinion of house pets. Bullet died about three years ago and my wife was so heartbroken that she couldn’t speak of him until earlier this year. About June, we ended up adopting two orange kittens who were born feral and were living in a woodpile at Wife’s folks’ place.
I’m sorry to hear about Cooney, Og, but I’m glad that you are left with good memories.
Catmatyx, the black & white beast I wrote of, had the habit in his later years of, when I’d sat on the toilet, trotting into the bathroom and curling up in my pants.
Got kind of ticked off when I made him move, too.