Reblogged from 365 and Counting:

It’s been close to 40 years since I’ve lived without a cat in my life and I’m shocked at how “still” and lifeless my apartment is.

Eerily, uncomfortably so, to be honest. I’m amazed at the energy these little critters bring. For a while now I’ve said — to myself mostly — that Bartlett (my last to go, just last Wednesday, pictured here) would be it for me.

But now I’m not so sure.

In my early years I wanted a dog and while it took my dad and me quite a while to convince my mother, I did finally get my wish, although truth be told, Tosca’s heart belonged to her. He liked us well enough, but it was to my mom’s side that he stuck like glue.

It was in the mid ’70s, after falling in love with a friend’s cats, that I decided I wanted one of my own.

Buddha lived to almost 19 and made the move with me, from Montreal to Toronto. Unlike most cats, who hate having to go into a carrier and, in fact, hate having to go anywhere, especially in a car, Buddha was perfectly fine with it. So whenever I went back home for a visit, instead of flying or taking the train I’d drive, with Buddha, fast asleep in his carrier, on the passenger seat beside me.

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