Two cat stories, related ones. Florence was a foundling, behind a dumpster in an alley in San Francisco. She couldn't have been more than a few weeks old, which means someone had to have just taken her and put her there to die. But Steve and I found her first, took her to the vet to get her checked out and through the rest of the weaning process, then home, where she has become -- 24 years later -- a spoiled-rotten little princess who is my last tie with a man I very much loved. And yes, she's 24 and in incredible health. I know that in some respects she's living on borrowed time, so I'm trying to adjust myself now for what will become an inevitability sooner rather than later. Still, she's been a part of my entire adult life, and I can't imagine life without her. That's the good story. About eight years ago, when I was on the road a lot, I thought it might help if she had some companionship, so I got a kitten from the pound. I know it's difficult to introduce a kitten into a house with an elderly cat, but they actualy seemed to co-exist pretty well. Enyo (named for a minor Greek god who was in charge of natural disasters) lived up to his name, tearing around the house for no reason whatsoever, fearful of everyone except me. He was happiest when he could curl up in my lap and be "protected" from all the bad things he knew was out there. Well, one morning he went feral. I don't know why, and even the vet has never been able to explain it. But he attacked Florence viciously enough to draw blood, then ran screaming into the basement, and you seriously took your life in your hands if you went down there. My vet, who isn't the trigger-happy kind, actually made a house call and ventured as far down the stairs as he dared, then told me we had no choice -- he had to be put down, if for no other reason than for Florence's safety. We were able to corner him and get him in the pet carrier, and we took him to the vet's office. The vet and his assistant, both of whom wearing protective clothing, took him away for some tests. About six hours later, they returned him. He looked like he had calmed down, probably out of fear, so I took him out of the carrier -- it was like picking up a limp doll, like he'd just given up on everything. I put him in my lap, and he just lay there and purred, and it brke my heart when the vet said we still had to do it, that there was some sort of tumor that had caused this -- because of its position, it was inoperable. There was nothing we could do. That was a year ago, and I still miss the little jerk. Every now and then it feels like I can see him, just out of the corner of my eye, and I nearly had a heart attack one day in the basement when I opened a box of stuff for my puppets that a friend had sent over, and on top was this fox wrap from the 30s -- except, for a flashing second, it was Enyo. Okay, comfort food time.....