When I began this exercise and wrote my first post using the letter “A” what, or who, I’d be telling you about by the time I got to “Z” was a foregone conclusion: It could be none other than my beloved tabby, Miss Zazu.
Several years before I moved to Toronto, I adopted a cat in Montreal. He was a gorgeous chinchilla persian. A friend of mine had a neighbour who had the mother and father. The litter was unusually large for persians — six adorable kittens. In a one-bedroom apartment there was no way this girl would have been able to keep eight cats, so she was keeping the parents and one kitten and the rest had to be adopted.
I lucked out. But he picked me, I didn’t pick him. The first time I saw them, when I went to this gal’s apartment to decide which one I wanted, I just gasped when she opened the door. They were the cutest little critters I’d ever seen. I immediately threw myself down on the living room floor. And all of a sudden, the chubbiest one waddled over and sat down on my lap. I named him Buddha (because he had this big, round belly and he sat like the statues we see of Buddha’s) and he and I were devoted to each other for almost nineteen years.
But when he passed, I decided I would get two cats the next time. I always felt that he was lonely all day when I went to work. And that it would have been more fun for both of us if he’d had a buddy. I’d mentioned this to a friend of mine, another