In 2011, my mother and I walked into a PetSmart in Attleboro, Massachusetts and were met with quite a few pairs of cats sharing pet carriers: mothers and daughters mostly, sisters in one case, and in a final pairing, two separate cat carriers one with a mother and the other with her son.

The Neponset Valley Humane Society brought the pairs to us because we’d requested two cats to adopt after the passing of Sweetie, our oversized and beautifully gentle Maine Coon. Online, I had seen Timmy’s little kitten picture, and his mother’s photo also. Her name at the time was Mishka. I thought they were both beautiful. Although Timmy had a pretty and finely boned- face, he was undoubtably male; something in his sleepy eyes and contented, dreamy expression, lay an unencumbered and devil-may-care boy, no doubt about it.

My mother had said when she saw his photo, “He looks like a guy…I’m not sure I want any males in the house.” We had been living together along with one female cat or another for decades. But I kept returning to Timmy’s online picture. I was entranced by his beauty: his golden eyes, and that whimsical expression. I wanted to see him. I asked the Humane Society to bring Timmy and his mother, along with other the other pairs of cats, to our meeting spot inside of PetSmart.

Mishka also had a pretty face. She was a diluted Tortie. She had with muted orange, white, and brown hues covered by a fluffy, gray fur coat. I would learn that she had the spitfire “catitude” that torties and calicos are known for: fiery, vocal, and prone to anger, but underneath it all, Mishka would come to be a sweet and wonderful pet.

Timmy and his mother, who we renamed, “Mia,” “a pretty, little name for a pretty, little cat,” my mom had said, were the pair who’d arrived in separate carriers. My mother and I should have gotten a clue from that difference where they were the only cat pairs who didn’t share the same space, or at least asked why Timmy and Mia had to be separated, but we did not ask. I should have gotten a clue about things to come when I learned Timmy’s original name was “Taz,” as in the devil.

Timmy had been born as a perfect bi-color orange and white cat, with Angora fur that made him feel like silk. He truly was a “pretty boy.” At the time I met him, he was a long, skinny kitten, about 10 months old. I stuck my hand in his carrier to pet him, and he immediately purred.

I said to the old lady who’d been fostering him, “He seems like a nice cat; he just needs a little attention,” to which she replied, “They’re both nice cats and he needs A LOT of attention.”

He was affectionate, sweet, needy and gentle – and yet rambunctious — which I would soon find out — as he repeatedly chased his mother through the house, up and down the stairs, into the kitchen, then to the living room, and finally pinned her down with a paw on her stomach when he caught her. I would hear Mia screaming in anger, and as I walked down the stairs to tell him to stop, he would look up at me with pride — add funny to his list of characteristics.

Meanwhile, Mia looked at me, too, and howled again, as if to say, “Look at how he treats me!” Once Timmy released her, Mia would slap him in the face with her paw, trying to discipline the unruly son. He didn’t care; he would stand next to her with his head tilted slightly back so she couldn’t reach him, an act of defiance, the act of a brat. It’s 2024 now, and I know Timmy so well — he enjoyed every moment of the torment he inflicted on his mom. It was a game to him; a war for her.

Between 2016 and 2020, Timmy and I lost our mothers, both to cancer. My mother died first and then Timmy’s, right before the pandemic lockdown. It was just the two of us for a time. We spent a lot of time together during lockdown. Eventually, I brought home two female cats, Marta and Annie, to keep Timmy company when the day came that I had to go back into the office. He hissed and spit at those girls for a while, before accepting them. They, on the other hand, adored him from the moment they laid eyes on him. He didn’t deserve that, but these were cat-loving cats.

Marta and Annie are not well-socialized to humans, so while they keep Timmy good company, they are not yet good company for a “hoo-man” like me. In a way, Timmy and I are still our own pair. He jumps on my bed and plops down next to me to purr, to nap, or to exude whiny meows to express his boredom or hunger. I understand his language, and he understands mine.

When I first met Timmy, I said to someone, “He and I will grow old together.” Still, I never thought he’d still be with me at age 14 for him and age 62 for me. I never thought my beautiful orange and white Angora boy would last this long. I am deeply grateful. I recently spent $3,000 to give him I-131 radioactive iodine treatment to cure his hyperthyroidism which would create complications that would likely lead to his death. Pet Insurance covered about half the cost, but even if it hadn’t, I would have paid to make him well again. Timmy is worth every penny.

Here’s to growing old together, Timmy!

Thank you for reading,

Cindy