Oliver, my love

Oliver actually adopted us.

I was tending goal in a riveting game of gym-class soccer when Oliver sauntered over to me, ignoring the running children and spinning soccer ball. He followed us inside after, trotting right into the school gymnasium. When the adults tried to shoo him outside, I scooped him up and ran to my mother's office, for my mother would surely love this big, vocal tiger cat with bright white socks and a cinnamon nose. And she did. We plotted--how could we make my dad agree to another cat? We presented Oliver as a gift, another male to even out the female-centric house. No, we did not need another cat, but Oliver was special.

Oliver instantly claimed the house as his own. He terrorized Lin and Molly, but turned to butter around humans. Ollie did everything a cat doesn't do--he begged at the table, cuddled on the couch, followed us earnestly from room to room, all while mewing his characteristic meow. While Lin and Molly were affectionate, they were independent and would often set out in the woods alone. Oliver did not. He preferred his humans' company to anything else. And he truly became my dad's cat, from their love of food to snoozing on the couch to sitting out on the warm back deck. Once my sister and I had both moved out, (I took Lin with me, Molly had already ventured to the great kitty outdoor heaven of adventure), Oliver was allowed to break every rule. After dinner, he licked their plates (often while sitting in my mother's lap). (This practice came to an end after he climbed on the Thanksgiving Day table--in front of thirteen guests--like it was completely normal.) That was fun.

I always called Ollie "my number one boy." He was the only boy who never let me down, the only boy who was utterly faithful and loyal. I could count on him for a good snuggle (he was big on sleeping) or a nice chat (he was quite the talker). Ollie had unending love and an incessent purr. We simply adored him, while he showered us with the unconditional love and loyalty that one normally attributes to dogs.

Oliver loved marinara sauce (we frequently found him chowing down on my dad's spaghetti--usually while my dad looked on and laughed) and roast turkey (climbed into the fridge after Thanksgiving) and honey ham (a daily treat--my dad loved spoiling him). He might be the most photographed kitty ever, as my mom, after getting a digital camera, could never resist taking a picture of Oliver sleeping. (Like, in the same spot. Every day. "But he is SO cute!")

The girls were great hunters, while Oliver was not. Cats find a great amount of pride in bringing their "kill" to their humans, and I have had a fair amount of mice and birds dumped on my feet. What I loved about Oliver was his unabashed pride in the animals he "caught." The girls would have an animal on the lawn and Oliver would scoop it up and run to the front door, presenting us with his treat. Dude, we totally saw you steal that bird from Molly, don't try to present it as your own. But his delight was so endearing. He would be SO pleased with himself! You could just hear him thinking, "I am SO the best of all the cats, Molly was just playing with this mouse and I--all alone--brought it into the house. Go me."

On his last weekend, Oliver visited his favorite places. He sat under his tree, he meandered over to his rock, and he bid his friend Toad farewell in the basement gutter (that was a little scary, as we couldn't find him for a bit. Getting in is easier than getting out). He was happy, comfortable, and so so so loved. The final day, I left him with a flurry of kisses and cuddles and tears. Later that night, he got my parents' attention with a soft meow, then quietly went to sleep in their arms. He really lived the best kitty life.





Oliver Samuel Anable
1992-2006
(rest in peace, my sweetest boy)