💗Beautiful, Beautiful Bentley: my gorgeous, sleepy cat!💗

Bentley has been with us now for seven years, and we can't imagine our lives without him. He is a dignified cat, rarely meows or makes a fuss, but rules in an imperious way, striking magnificent poses (i. e. his British Museum pose, modelling the famous Egyptian bastet sculpture which inspired worship in ancient times). He divides his loyalties evenly between us, but it is always along certain lines which never vary. He sleeps very contentedly on Bill's lap in the Lazy Boy, but his routine with me is different. As I lie reading in bed (something comfortably boring to help me get to sleep), he will steal into the room, jump up, and stare at me with those uncanny eyes for the longest time, before gingerly reaching out a paw to touch me. Then another touch, then a little harder one, then he stretches his paw way up and spreads his toes - the signal for me to give him his treats. Then when he has had a nice face-wash, he settles himself between my ankles, turning around and around and plunking himself down. When I turn out the lights, I often have to turf him off or at least get him to move over a bit. We often think he understands everything we say, to the point we are tempted to spell things out as you would do with a toddler. But he is wise beyond his years, expending his energies only to leap up to the bird feeders installed on our windowpanes. He IS a cat, after all. And a cat's a cat, for a' that. 

This is the tribute to Bentley I posted not long after we brought him home. Hard to believe it's been so many years! 

When my beloved lovebird Paco died just a short time ago, it was agonizing. She only lived 100 days, and was an absolute delight. I should have spent many years with her. I knew I couldn't get another bird, because if that happened again -

We didn't even have cats on our minds. Oh all right, we did, because my daughter had just adopted Mia, a darling little tabby who stole everybody's heart. I noticed how the whole atmosphere in the house had changed, as if it had been flooded with sunshine.

At one point in my anger and grief over Paco, I said to Bill, "I can't get another bird, I just can't. We might as well go get a cat." This was a reference to the "no more cats" rule we had made after the death of Murphy, the 17-year-old catriarch of the family, in 2007.

Bill especially felt that we'd be too old by the time the cat reached that age, if it ever did. But he said something surprising that changed everything. "We could get a cat." I hadn't meant it literally, but suddenly our thinking began to change. And as we all know, that changes everything.

We decided we would "start the process of looking for a cat". Not rush into anything, of course. We weren't even supposed to be getting another pet at this stage. It was too soon, far too soon, wasn't it? But I began to look into it, research adoption web sites.  My first experience was with a Vancouver kitten rescue agency called VOKRA. I looked at one cat, a very lovely cat indeed, and as soon as I reached out to pet her, she tore a chunk out of me. We both went home from that "viewing" with bloody scratches.

I think sometimes certain organizations are just too idealistic about whether a cat is truly adoptable or not. That one wasn't.

So we decided to try the SPCA, where most people go. I had been looking on the web site for a while, and saw this snagglepuss-like baby cougar, and just HAD to go see him. Right now. He was in Maple Ridge, so it didn't take too long.

It was just one of those things. He was housed in an enclosure about the size of a large walk-in closet, much more amenable than a cage, but still kind of cramped for a cat. When he saw me he jumped down, ran towards me and wound himself around my leg. I immediately picked him up and held him. He relaxed into my arms. He had a soft, plushy coat, and was purring gently.

"This is the cat," I said to Bill. "Are you sure?" "There are no other cats. This is the one."

It has only been a few days, yet it seems longer, and not because time is dragging. It's another thing entirely. This little guy, about a year old, has an incredible history. Someone found him outside, mangled and bleeding. He had been mauled by a dog and had bite-marks on his shoulders. And yet, he is a sweet and gentle cat who loves to be held. So far his worst habit is drinking out of the toilet.

He has substantial gaps in his coat where the dog bit and probably shook him. They might or they might not fill in with fur, but if they don't, they'll only remind me of his valor in facing down a nasty old dog, and (even more remarkably) not becoming nasty himself.

My daughter-in-law Crystal has a way of summing things up. "After he flew down from heaven, that's where his wings broke off," she said.  Amen to that.