A bi-colour blue Ragdoll Kitten living in the UK
Submitted Tue, Nov 14, 2017 at 4:55 PM
Here is the story of how I met my Ragdoll kitten. He’s 17 weeks.
On a wind blown Sunday afternoon, my wife and I made our regular visit to the local pub. Both full of hunger and thirst and desire my wife turns to me; “what shall we eat?” The familiar question which has inspired both ire and desire in equal measure.
After a fairly bog standard meal, during which the urge to look at our phones diminished only with the onset of the first course (A fairly pedestrian carrot soup) and the main (A greasy but decent fish and chips) we sauntered boozily towards our honeymoon abode.
“Shall we look in this pet shop?” I said, asking more out of ennui than even I realised at that point.
“Sure,” my wife replied without looking up at me, “I guess it can’t make anything worse.”
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As we browsed the racks of puppy food and collars my wife began to whisper, “we should see oth-” I cut her off. One of her pet peeves. Something I can’t help. My father did it too. “We should get a guinea pig,” I mused.
“If we get a pet, IF, we should get a real one. Like a dog….or a cat….”
I have always considered myself a dog man, it reminds me of my father I suppose, I think. However, having a conscience that my father didn’t I couldn’t in good faith choose to look after a dog with the hours that I work. Thus began my journey into the world of the noble ragdoll.
After searching online we found a breeder of a seeming standard within the community. Yes she wasn’t gccf accredited, and yet her adverts had a charm and genuine care for the animals within her care. After another frosty Saturday morning during which my wife was again refusing to get out of bed we set off on our journey to south east London, searching for something that would give our lives meaning again. As we swept past autumnal avenues, memories flying through our heads, questions; were we ever really in love? Is our love dead or is it my soul? Do rag dolls need much grooming?
“We’re here,” I said, mainly for my own benefit, my wife drooling again against the windowsill, last night’s red wine having the usual Saturday morning consequence.
Having finally roused my darling wife, we rapped on the door of our potential betrothed…
“‘Ello darlin’, take ya shoes orf if ya will me petal!” the harridan shrieked, frightening my wife out of her slumber, even more effective than the medicinal double espresso that she mainlines into her veins as regularly as she complains about my melancholy attitude towards the world. Still, something was clearly amiss. While the fur babies were admittedly adorable, the level of complexity in our emotions at this point, the cruciality of perfection in this stage of our relationship was paramount and the backyard shenanigans of this rank amateur did not meet our standards.
We looked around. We researched. PKD free. DNA tests. Champion sired. The curtain rustles once more, blowing chill autumnal air into the bedroom, further cooling our own attitudes towards each other.
“There’s one near Greenwich, GCCF reg,” I said. Chillier than the wind which seems to call my name, asking me to leave again, to continue my search for myself.
“Ok,” my wife said, now not even bothering to roll over anymore.
Yet we set off. One more time. To find ourselves and hopefully each other. For the first time in seven months our hands touched, maybe this could be it?
As we entered the house to discover our potential new surrogate, an over whelming scent filled our nostrils, was it ammonia or hope? To this day I don’t know.
And then we saw Louis…my wife’s eyes lit up like I hadn’t seen since her father died, some years before. It stirred in my heart something that I thought has gone. Something long remembered from a lifetime ago. A flutter and a flying, like a song experienced by a teenage boy in love. The cat was oblivious. A bi-colour blue with what we were told to be unsymmetrical markings, not appropriate for showing. To us he looked like perfection.
After weeks of anticipation the day was finally upon us, our cat was ready to be ours. I was so excited I hadn’t thought about my father for days. My wife even seemed somewhat awakened, opting to drink when other people were around. Maintaining contact with the breeders, I shared my excitement on the eve of our reception, whereupon I received the most disheartening of text messages; “call me please!” A cold sweat ran down my back, a sweat familiar to my life as a 7 year old, taking me straight back to the day that my father told me that I disappointed him and then turned away for the last time.
“Oh no, is everything ok?” I asked coolly, belying my abject panic.
“Yes he’s fine. Just wanted to know when you are going to be up to collect him,” she said laughing.
“I will destroy you,” I thought, before saying, “About 6.30.”
Bringing him home was enlightening. From the moment he entered our house, he has made it his own. From his first tentative steps leaving his carrier, exploring the house and using his toys his life has been a cacophony of love. His patter of feet in the morning is a joy to behold and makes the meaninglessness of the universe dissolve in the November rain. Having Louis in our lives has made us feel like part of something again. My wife has started jogging. Never before did she feel like she could love an animal, truly, like she loved her papa. And yet here we are. He has made an immeasurable difference to us and life will never be the same again.
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