They Say It's Your Birthday

Coco -- devilishly planning mayhem. Of course.

We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy Birthday to you.
 
Somehow, Coco did NOT get the musical reference when we sang this to her. Hmmph.

The Amazing Bob™ and I adopted our flossy little alarm clock three years ago today. We found her at a shelter in Plymouth, MA.

This was a few weeks after our much loved Big Orange Pumpkin (AKA B.O.P. -- who adopted us/took over almost the minute we moved into the neighborhood) failed to return home after one of his nights of carousing and playing king of the neighborhood. We later heard that there were fox sightings, possibly coyote, in our area (mind you, we’re just one town south of Boston -- it’s a densely populated ‘burb) and that almost ALL the neighborhood outdoor cats had gone missing.

B.O.P. -- King of The Neck

Jen and I made Beloved Missing Cat signs at work and posted them on every telephone pole and tree within a 6 block radius of our house. We spoke with everyone we saw on the street and at Louis. A few times a day, Bob, Oni, Jen and I went out on searches --looking under bushes, porches and on the beach (B.O.P. loved prowling, patrolling the beach at low tide). We haunted the local shelters -- hoping he’d turn up there, all cranky about us being late to chauffeur him home.

fuzzy shot of alleged killer fox

Nada. No positive results.

When it became clear that B.O.P. wasn’t coming home our anxiety and fears turned to full on sad, angry mournfulness. We missed him terribly, continuing to check the doors and windows every hour just in case.

I wanted another furry companion right away but Bob, ever the laid back Dancing Wu Li Master of all things feline, said ‘Be patient. Wait, wait. The cat we need will find us.’ My response? ‘There’s a shelter in Plymouth doing a ‘Tuxedo Day’ this Saturday. We’re going.’

See how well we communicate?

We met our future Coco there. She was just mad shy, seemed depressed and overwhelmed, with a major side of totally FREAKED OUT. Coco (named ‘Mom’ then -- she’d recently given birth) was a boneless wonder when I picked her up -- traumatized by all the apparent chaos. I recognized my own small self in her -- my own horrid childhood fears and anguish. We had to rescue this sad, fuzzy bundle.

With our respective maternal instincts kicked into 112th gear, Bob and I brought her home for endless spoiling. This being one of our special talents.

During her first week in Hough’s Neck Heaven, the newly christened Coco would just sit and watch us. She was in a constant state of ‘cringe’ as though she was looking out for the next blow, the next swat -- and she probably was.

During the day, while I was at work, Bob would speak softly to her, offer her treats and just give her the space she needed. At night I would lay on the couch, Coco on my chest, and speak peaceful bon mots.

Within a few months she had claimed HER chair, assumed her alarm clock duties and was racing around the house like an overheated atomic particle -- always with this sly look over her shoulder as if to say “you can’t catch me, Nyah, nyah!” Sure, she sits on our laps but, more often than not, she’s off chasing her super balls, leaping into the air after them like Barishnikov (had he been a cat, that is) or playing “Catch Me If You Can” for hours.

Still.

She’s four years old today (the last three of those years with us) -- does the toddler energy level never wind down?!