The Rambler

My boy is back.

He flew in yesterday from Comox, all by himself. And in a surprise move, after weeks and weeks of non-commital answers, my landlord came through and is letting him stay.

For those of you that don’t yet know Mortimer, don’t worry, you will. He goes by various nicknames such as “the boy” and “the pest” and variations of those, and is the greatest cat in the history of this planet. His favourite colour is pink and he is an Olympic athlete, completing feats of jumping prowess that take skill and flair. Oh, and he can comb own hair.

Adopting Mortimer

Five years ago, my then-boyfriend, Mark, and I went to the Toronto Humane Society on a free adoption day, browsing for a companion for Kitty, the white princess we stole from old roommates who weren’t getting her medical care when she needed it. I had planned on finding a sweet old lady cat, but a cage on the floor in a corner caught my eye.

Inside was one kitten. A super nerdy looking, scrawny black and white kitten with a deformed looking curly tail. As I stood there bent over looking in at him, alone in his cage, he coughed. “Weird,” I said, and moved on.

When we circled back, I stopped to peer in at him again. I flipped through his paperwork. His name was Nikee (what kind of a name is that?) and the notes section said “likes being combed.” According to his papers, someone had adopted him recently and then brought him back. He coughed again. Mark and I looked at each other, and looked at a humane society worker, and told the guy, “This cat is sick. It’s coughing.” “It’s fine,” he said.

I didn’t want to leave poor Nikee there all by himself, alone in a cage where someone had already adopted and returned him, and where no one believed he was actually sick. But we hadn’t planned on getting a cat that day. I was sad, but ready to walk out the door. Mark could tell, I guess, how much I really wanted to bring the little thing home. On our way out, he asked and I denied it. I said, let’s come back tomorrow. He wouldn’t let me off the hook, and even though he was so mean he made me cry, in retrospect it was for the best.

After filling out some papers, the little sicko was bundled into a box. We whisked him straight to the doctors’ where he was hooked up to an IV and prescribed a bunch of medicine. Finally, we made it home with him. He was like a purring machine. All you had to do was look at him. We renamed him Mortimer, after a cute old man on the TV and the Robert Munsch character (you know, “Mortimer, be quiet!).

Mortimer the nomad

Mortimer had two homes in Toronto before flying to Calgary to live for six months. Then, he came up to Edmonton and lived in two different homes here, too. It was while living in his second home, with feline roommates Josie and Jupiter, that he first experienced the luxury of going outside. It was a few months later, as well, that he disappeared for the first time. I put up posters all over the neighbourhood and far beyond, and cycled around on my old gold bicycle calling his name for a week. Then one night, Moira heard his unmistakable howl at the back door. Mort came strolling into the house, looking a little thin, but strutting confidently. The weirdest part? He was holding his tail straight.

During my period of pseudo-homelessness, Mortimer lived on Vancouver Island. If you read my last post, you’ll know that my mom just sold her amazing home and is entering a temporary state of pseudo-homelessness of her own. That’s why, yesterday around noon, she stuffed Mort into a kennel and dropped him off at YQQ to catch a Westjet flight to Edmonton. I met him on the other side.

Mortimer comes home

Now, Mortimer has a new home and we are together again. I am happy, and even though he has to leave behind recreational hobbies like bird chasing and tree climbing and catmint eating for the lazy comfort of a downtown apartment, I think he is too.

You might also like: