I have a new love in my life. He is black, has advanced arthritis, is mostly deaf and is 96. I am head over heels crazy about him. And I know he loves me. His name is Elvis.
Elvis is a 19-year-old cat who ran away from home, from across the street, about three weeks ago. He divides his time between our yard and that of our next door neighbors, with whom we share a driveway. In fact, the driveway is his favorite place to sleep. He doesn’t respond to the sound of a car engine or horn, which means I have to physically move him when I want to get in or out of the driveway.
The poor little guy is fur and bones, with a raspy Clint Eastwood-esque meow, with which he greets me every morning, before and after I go to the gym. He follows me to my front door, hoping to get a look at my house cats, Ricky and Lucy. It’s our little ritual. He still has quite a purr going, and he is wildly affectionate. He doesn’t seem to have any interest in going home; perhaps he knows something about his future that he wants to keep on the DL.
I love Ricky and Lucy dearly, but I have a special fondness for Elvis. Ricky and Lucy are my babies, but Elvis is my man, my scrawny little hunka burning love.