What was your first pet cat – quora 3 gases that contribute to the greenhouse effect

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Anyway, the first cat I remember getting was Tommy. I was about 4, and I was obsessed with the movie The Three Lives of Thomasina. As such, my family was dismayed when they allowed me to pick the name and my first choice was Thomasina. For obvious reasons, it was shortened to Tommy, pretty quickly. Another big cat, this one was all ginger. He was the snuggliest cat I’ve ever had, and his death a few years later hit us all a lot harder than Peesley’s. He was an indoor/outdoor cat, but he was always really good at avoiding trouble until one day, he managed to get in a fight with some stray animal and contracted feline HIV. As I understand it, we have ways of giving FIV+ cats full, healthy lives now, but years ago, our only option was to put him down. For all of the above reasons, I now only have indoor cats, and I struggle so much with the idea of euthanizing animals, because in the back of my head, there’s always that voice that wonders whether there will be a cure for this particular ailment sometime soon, and putting him/her down is premature. Luckily, none of my other pets have gotten to that point, but if one ever does, I don’t know what I will do with myself.

My first cat was a stray, and I’m sure I did the typical, “Mom, can I keep her?” little-kid routine. I was three or almost three years old. My mother didn’t care to have animals indoors, and some sad ends came to the two or three cats I tried to adopt as a child. My second attempt, an all-black kitten, died during the first night with me.

Adulthood is wonderful in that one gets to arrange matters the way one wishes. My “first” two cats were sisters from the litter born under the porch of the house behind mine while I lived in Ocean Beach, San Diego, CA. I managed to resist the first litter of gorgeous, playful, funny kittens, but the second litter hit me square in the heart. Not a single kitten out of those five looked like any other: there was a small black tailless Manx, a gray-and-white girl, a gray tabby, and my two. We in the neighborhood agreed that first dibs went to neighbors. I fell in love with a beautiful, high-voiced singer of a tortie-and-white, and took her and her mom home with me. A few days later I went back to the fence that separated the properties and scooped up the runt, a warm-brown tabby with a three-quarter-length tail that had a fetching kink at the end of it. She had been following me the length of the fence every time I walked by, mewing at the top of her tiny lungs, and she hooked me.

A neighbor decided she wanted the mama as an outdoor cat—the best option for the queen cat, whom everyone contributed to having spayed. We three remaining co-residents lived happily together for almost seventeen years before they succumbed to old age and kidney disease, one of the two most common causes of death in pet cats.

Those beautiful companions taught me so much about cats, kittens, love between caretakers and pets, and a thousand other practical-life subjects. I become functional again some time after I lose a pet, but I never forget any of them. Most pet people will tell you the same: animals become as much a part of our consciousness as friends and relatives. You cannot really lose what you deeply love, but you surely miss their active presence when they are gone.

The first pet cat that I remember was a barn cat. I am sure that some preceded him but I was playing with him when I was about five years old. He was full grown with thick black hair and a muscular body. His name was Tom. He lived in the hay barn, the garage or the heated building used as a wash house. All of the laundry was done there. Large tubs of water were heated for the clothes washing. In cool weather a heater was on constantly. Natural gas was free from the adjacent oil well. Tom had fresh water and fresh dishes of cow’s milk twice a day. He was a skilled mouser. My dad had a trained bird dog and the two of them worked together to catch rabbits. Tom was quite well fed.

Tom was very relaxed with little girls and allowed me to dress him doll dresses and bonnets. He spent a considerable amount of time being wheeled about the yard and the out buildings. The doll buggy was a good fit as it had a soft blanket folded into it. If he got tired of being dressed up and carried about, he simply hid. I was an only child living in the country and he was my playmate. I don’t recalled ever being scratched or bitten. He lived a good long life and was found dead one morning. He was curled up,on a tow sack full of grain and simply didn’t wake up.It has been close to 70 years and I still have fond memories of him.