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2006-08-04 - 12:16 p.m. Garibaldi, Michael Xavier I read, once, a list for graduating students of things they should be able to do, hard and icky things, before they can call themselves an adult. Clean out the icky stuff in the sink strainer. I can do all those things; you learn early on a farm. It is June, 1996; Highland River Melee�s and hot as hell. Finn O�Shannon opens a cardboard box and hands me a white and grey ball of fluff. This is the bad kitten; he�s the one that escapes from the box no matter what. Yellow-green eyes study me, and a slow purr starts. I put him on my shoulder and walk the long path to the rapier field. All the ladies, seeing me from a distance, begin to tease Roland You�re going home with a kitten. I hold up the ball of fluffy to my husband. He buries his face, briefly, in his hand then kisses me and begins to scratch the kitten�s chin. He never argued about adopting the kitten. Roland says it was the look of joy on my face. I think he wanted the cat too, even though we already had Puck and Tasha. Isobel taught him to play kitty-come-home-from-the-hunt, which put a quizzical look on his face and a big smile on hers; Vic, ever the good vet, palpated him and pronounced him adorable and healthy. Rubbing noses with the kitten, she said And you look like a Garibaldi. He studied her and said Mew! Vic, I am not naming the cat Garibaldi. Diane was spinning wool that day, grey wool just the color of his fur. She spun him a small ball with which we teased him into doing adorable kitty things through the long, hot afternoon. Garibaldi had that ball of wool for years. Carried around like a child with a security blanket, until only a foot-long string was left � not even enough to wind into a ball. He just drug the string around. And that was how our cat became a natural fiber snob. No down comforter with it�s synthetic covering, no matter now soft and squishy, could tempt him. The wool blanket, or the linen dress on the bed please. Finn�s point about him being mischievous led him to quickly acquire two more names because I�ve always believe children need a long and yellable name so it�s clear when they�re in trouble. Michael Xavier Garibaldi. He was, a remarkably cool cat which I can best explain by saying Genevieve, who was deathly allergic to him, really adored Garibaldi. With intimate friends, you can sit in complete silence for hours. Words are unnecessary; merely their company brings relaxation, safety, love and contentment. These are the friends for those rare and golden Sunday mornings passed reading the paper, napping on the couch, and hardly speaking for hours. I�ve had many cats in my life. During my teenager years, I had seven dogs, nine cats, three horses, a goat, two dozen chickens, a couple turkeys and a herd of cattle. There may have been, briefly, ducks included in the menagerie. I forget. I�ve loved all my pets, but, very rarely, one becomes that Sunday morning companion; he walks towards you and smile slowly, unconsciously, without looking up. These are not the pets the answer to a command of �kitty-kitty,� but trot over like a friend when you quietly speak their name. Slowly, before you realize it, they are not just a warm ball of purring fur, but a small part of your soul. I�ve had two companion cats in my life. Morris, a barncat of my youth adopted me; followed me everywhere - not like a dog, but like a friend that sees you across the ways and trots over to say hello and lend a hand. I�d be in the barn loft of the far field and, suddenly, Morris would saunter over having hiked a couple miles from the house to see if I was doing something interesting. And Garibaldi. I�ve lost many pets in my life. I�ve buried and mourned horses, cats, dogs, a goat named Surprise, and a heifer named 1976. Nature isn�t evil. Animals, like people, succumb to disease and accidents. Losing a companion is entirely different. � � � 
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