For those of you new to my blog, I have a pet cat named Harry. I babysat for him going back to 2010, and then when my landlord’s wife couldn’t take care of him anymore at the end of 2014, they asked me to. I declined at first, but when I was told that once in the care of the ASPCA they’d likely put him down (why kill a six year old cat?), I took care of him full-time starting in January of 2015.
When I’m at home, he’s always around me. We always get along well, but on Saturday, there was a sign that I’ve won his love.
He meowed at me constantly this one muggy July morning. Usually, if he should vomit and I’m not aware of it, he gets my attention by going to wherever I am. If I’m napping, he’ll jump on the bed and head butt my forearm with his forehead. But this time, inside of vomit, he brought me a present in the form of either a comatose or dead lizard.
I thanked Harry for the present as if it were the winning ticket of the Florida Lottery, quickly picked up the immobile lizard (I was 99% sure it was dead, though I saw no marks of mutilation or being squashed), and placed it gently on the front porch near some bushes.
Yep, we’re getting along just fine.