In my family, animals run the show. Once an animal enters the house, they are there for life. We have the iridescent shark, whom we rescued from an abandoned apartment, almost ten years ago. There’s Leo, the female (oops, we didn’t know that when we adopted her) parrot who used to be kept in a cage so small, she has a hunch back. We have Kitty Boos, the previously little flea-ridden stray kitten found on the side of the road; Diablo, our Paso Fino who took years to fully trust us, he was so mistreated beforehand. The list goes on and on. Some of them, however, have been in the house since the day they were born. One of them is Puppy, my favorite kitty in the whole entire world.

Puppy was one of three kittens in a litter that included Chubby and Tucker (Chubby disappeared when I was younger; Tucker passed away a couple years ago). I named Puppy and Chubby (who wasn’t chubby at all) and my sister Nicole named Tucker. He is twenty years old and still a lively old gent, though he has lost a considerable amount of weight, over the years (he was the one with all the chub). In his twenty years, he has tolerated the presence of a plethora of animals, without batting a paw. He’s the coolest, most laid back cat I have ever known. I adore this kitty, with his tuxedo fur coat and extra toes.