Dawne wrote a two-page story of Duncan, which appears in the 2010 Tabby Cats Gallery.
The little tabby appeared at my door in the arms of an adolescent girl. Golden eyes and enormous ears peeked out over a shocking-pink collar. The teen said she’d found the kitten in the gutter in the pouring rain and hidden it in her room for two days before her mother discovered the creature and insisted that they find out where it belonged. An hour later, she returned and asked whether I would take it, “just for the weekend?” I told her that if I took the cat for the weekend, I’d want to keep it.
She piped up, “That’s OK missus. I think she likes you.” Margaret Elektra – “Maggie” was moved in directly, and I was besotted.
The kitten’s arrival was auspiciously timed; I was in a delicate state - physically and emotionally depleted in the wake of heartbreaking events.“Maggie” filled my life with playtime and furry, purring warmth; gazing into those golden eyes and feeling the beating of a little pulse set my nervous system aright in short order.
Shortly thereafter, a visit to the veterinarian disclosed that Maggie was male. Home we went and lived on a no-name basis for some days until it occurred to me that perhaps he was Scottish. With Maggie on the desk beside me, I proceeded down a list of Scottish male names, asking whether a particular name suited him. He gave a short sharp meow when I said “Duncan,” which means The Brown Warrior. I liked that he carried my surname. And I loved that, for the most part, he came running when I called him.
He faced his biggest challenge when less than a year old.
A scruffy tomcat appeared on the scene during the spring mating-season and stayed around for much of the summer. He made it his business to torment the three local neutered males. More than once, I chased the brazen tom off my property, colourfully threatening bodily harm. The neighbours were amused by the ructions, and grew protective of Duncan. Mr. Brennan, a man in his eighties across the street, reported to me several times that he’d “run after the ‘bad cat’ like the banshee” because it was after my cat. Poor Duncan was in a dilemma from then on; he had to weigh the possibility of attack against his desire to be outdoors.
Duncan is with me no more; that he is missed doesn’t come close to expressing the loss I feel. When he arrived on the scene, he changed “dread darkness into light and cold chaos into ecstasy.” I can picture him now, playing ‘tag’ with the angels and joining the chase to “speed the stardust on its flight.”
The little tabby appeared at my door in the arms of an adolescent girl. Golden eyes and enormous ears peeked out over a shocking-pink collar. The teen said she’d found the kitten in the gutter in the pouring rain and hidden it in her room for two days before her mother discovered the creature and insisted that they find out where it belonged. An hour later, she returned and asked whether I would take it, “just for the weekend?” I told her that if I took the cat for the weekend, I’d want to keep it.
She piped up, “That’s OK missus. I think she likes you.” Margaret Elektra – “Maggie” was moved in directly, and I was besotted.
The kitten’s arrival was auspiciously timed; I was in a delicate state - physically and emotionally depleted in the wake of heartbreaking events.“Maggie” filled my life with playtime and furry, purring warmth; gazing into those golden eyes and feeling the beating of a little pulse set my nervous system aright in short order.
Shortly thereafter, a visit to the veterinarian disclosed that Maggie was male. Home we went and lived on a no-name basis for some days until it occurred to me that perhaps he was Scottish. With Maggie on the desk beside me, I proceeded down a list of Scottish male names, asking whether a particular name suited him. He gave a short sharp meow when I said “Duncan,” which means The Brown Warrior. I liked that he carried my surname. And I loved that, for the most part, he came running when I called him.
He faced his biggest challenge when less than a year old.
A scruffy tomcat appeared on the scene during the spring mating-season and stayed around for much of the summer. He made it his business to torment the three local neutered males. More than once, I chased the brazen tom off my property, colourfully threatening bodily harm. The neighbours were amused by the ructions, and grew protective of Duncan. Mr. Brennan, a man in his eighties across the street, reported to me several times that he’d “run after the ‘bad cat’ like the banshee” because it was after my cat. Poor Duncan was in a dilemma from then on; he had to weigh the possibility of attack against his desire to be outdoors.
Duncan is with me no more; that he is missed doesn’t come close to expressing the loss I feel. When he arrived on the scene, he changed “dread darkness into light and cold chaos into ecstasy.” I can picture him now, playing ‘tag’ with the angels and joining the chase to “speed the stardust on its flight.”
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