Archie’s Story
The difference between Archie and Baby Titten was clear immediately. Instead of climbing the walls and exploring every room in sight without a second thought to the dogs, Archie backed himself into a corner and rather pathetically swatted at the dogs, hissing. Poor little thing was scared silly.
He was an orange little furball with a slightly smooshed-in face, absolutely adorable. We had been told he was a girl but when we took him to the vet, she began to inspect his little parts and declared, “Congratulations, it’s a boy.” Our reply? “Thank God we didn’t name him Lily.” Oddly, one of our top names had been Archie even when we thought he was a girl. Archie it was.
We got Archie because Baby Titten had been staring at the wall and my husband was convinced she needed a friend. This new found freedom of having as many animals as often as I wanted was exhilarating. Now? It’s exhausting. So we looked in the paper and saw an ad for Persian kittens. We picked out Archie, and Baby Titten loved him… until he used her kitty litter. The wheels began turning in her head. Suddenly, this was serious. She was not happy. Someone had to show this little thing who was boss. So she began to sit on him, every single step he took. And she is relentless. So we would have to take turns watching the cats and peeling her off him. I noticed Jack’s herding instincts kicking in and sometimes herding her away from him. In a light bulb moment, I realized I could use the dogs to my advantage, and taught them “Get the kitty.” Which was brilliant until the glee in telling the cat what to do outlived my purposes. Oh, and Baby Titten still stares at the wall.
Archie loved playing games and hated being in his litter box. Which seems unrelated, but it isn’t. We would have to break up his little games and carry him to the litter box. Once there, he would cry and try to escape the litter box and I would have to push him back in until he would finally go. Then he would go right back to playing. In the mornings he couldn’t wait to play, and going down the stairs was such an inconvenience, that we soon discovered he was pooping behind the dresser. And so it was back to waking up early, carrying him down the stairs and pushing him into the litter box repeatedly until he would go.
At 17 pounds, it is hard to believe that he was so small that he slept on my neck. He would put his paw on my nose and the intense tickling would wake me up. Now, he is so big that he when he stands on his hind legs and stretches out his “arms” he reaches my hips with his front paws.
Our favorite ritual takes place each morning. He runs to the kitchen and rolls over. I am then to pet his belly. Afterward, he jumps up and waits by the sink for me to turn on the water. I turn on the facet so it drips ever so slightly, and he laps it up. He loves me to carry him around, and especially to carry him outside. We often say he is one big ball of fur and sweetness.
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