A story of a bachelor’s induction into cat fatherhood
Sammy’s mother had already chosen me. Mysterious-looking in her tabby raiment, she was an alley gal who suddenly appeared at the door of the restaurant I lived above. After she figured out how to get into my third floor rooms, the staff decided she was mine. I named her Fritzie, after the cook.
Fortunately, I had advisors on the ways of the domestic feline, for I had never owned a cat. As a team, we set her up with a basket for a bed, food, and toilet accommodations. Fritzie was a sweet girl who quietly enriched my life with her presence. Cautious presence, that is. Apparently, she must have been mistreated by people and was wary of me approaching her. Yet, she was the one who selected my life and, all in all, she seemed to be thriving.
Thriving, indeed. Fritzie was swelling. The first educated guess was – God no – worms. A vet was able to examine her and happily eliminate that possibility. Concurrently, the reason for Fritzie’s changes revealed itself. She was on the nest. Or the litter box. In other words, my little vixen was pregnant.
At the appointed time, the litter was delivered. As the kittens grew, they started to move around and do those “kitten things:” chasing each other, practicing their leaps. I had no plans to keep any of the kittens, but…there was one little fellow, Sammy, attired with white boots. I found that appealing and also comfortingly reminiscent of family legends regarding my grandfather’s cat, “Boots.”
Once, as I sat watching TV with a plastic tumbler of water at my side, Sammy leaped up and grasped the cup. Mind you, the proportions were as comical as you or me trying to embrace the bulbous reservoir of a water tower. Of course, he couldn’t really get a claw-hold. As I steadied the wobbling tumbler, slightly lifting it from the table in the process, Sam steadily and slowly slid down and off – just like a cartoon kitty – falling all the way to the floor. Unfazed, he gleefully bounded off to his next adventure (and into my heart.)
A few days later, Fritzie’s brood romped about my apartment. Now fully weaned, they used a cut- down cardboard shipping box for their quarters. Because its sides were about eight inches high, gaining entry to the box provided a playful challenge for the kittens. One of Sammy’s siblings took a running start and, like a high jumper, made her attempt. She got her front paws over the sides of the cardboard barrier, intent on pulling herself up and over. Sammy, with all the wild abandon and joy of a successful linebacker, rushed and sacked her. They both toppled outside the box, delightedly wrestling and chortling.
The deal was clinched. Sammy stays.
For these heartwarming recollections, many thanks go to Pete Souders, former owner of Ortlieb’s Jazzhaus in Northern Liberties for two glorious decades.
I am saying goodbye to a special place. My mind, intuition, soul, heart, and soon bank account, know it is the proper time to pass it to the next family. Therefore, there are no regrets mixed into my aches. Nevertheless, it goes hard with me, saying goodbye to my sanctuary. Sunlight, ubiquitous wood, glass doorknobs, porcelain kitchen sink, tiles from 1937, a back garden framed with tall privet hedges like “the secret garden.” May the next wonderful family’s guardian angels watch over them as they love and create a home in this space. And, may my guardian angels quickly take me to my next sanctuary. 
) Or, I could say that the name “Parham” has mystical attraction for me.
