The Rufus Origin Story
I forgot to tell you Rufus' origin story when I introduced him last week! Let me remedy that now.
The Ultimate Dog Brewery
Avery Brewing is a very dog-friendly establishment, which is a good thing because it's located directly across the street from one of the busiest dog hangouts in Boulder, Twin Lakes. The Hubby and I had just finished a couple laps around the lake with Emmie and wandered over to the Avery patio. The Kid and her Beau joined us and we were all just chilling, enjoying a nice summer night.
Send My Regrets
But Hubby seemed distracted, like he was contemplating a serious decision. After a few minutes he sighed at me and the Kid and said, "I know I'm going to regret this, but ... you two ladies should look behind you."
And there, perched atop a beer barrel like GODDAMN QUEEN, was this haughty little skinbag:
Love at First Scorn
She stared at me with such disdain, such utter contempt, I had no choice but to rush over and grovel at her paws. Her Mom said I could pet her and I reached out cautiously, expecting a rubbery, latex texture, maybe something a little clammy, even. It was the singularly softest, warmest thing I have ever felt. It was like touching a steamy, velvety peach if peaches could purr, which she was doing vigorously.
Something snapped in my brain; it made a little *plink* sound. My head went swimmy, my knees went weak. I stumbled back to my table and announced I had to have that in my life. Right. Fucking. Now.
After a few days of obsessive internet scouring, I found exactly the sphynx breeder for me: Beeblebrox Cattery. That's right, they named themselves after one of my favorite characters, Zaphod Beeblebrox, from my all time favorite book, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The book that saved my pathetic teenage life because it helped me find my tribe. Once again, 40+ years later, THGTTG helped me find a new tribe: my weirdo-cat people.
Look out Great Danes, there's a new Sphynx in town
I've always been such a dog person, specifically a Great Dane person, the intensity of this infatuation took me by surprise. Even when we had cats in our house, they belonged to the Kid, not me or Hubby. Although, once, long before Alijah (that's the Kid) was born, we had an orange tabby cat named Oliver who stole our hearts.
We were sitting at the end of our front walkway, on the steps leading down to the street, just chatting about our day. Across the street from us in the neighbor's yard we could see six or seven tiny kittens, romping and play-fighting with each other. Suddenly the little orange one looked up -- directly at me -- and without ever breaking eye contact, he made a beeline across the street, up my leg, onto my lap, and finally settled himself with great authority on my chest.
"Well, I guess I have a cat now."
Six months later he went outside to play one day and never came back. I choose to think he just went and repeated the same process with a new family. I also choose to think he is still out there, 35 years later, a little nomad moving from home to home like a furry, orange Kerouac. I expect to meet him on the road someday.
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