Tosca and Norma (top) and Norma (bottom)
Most of the cats who have allowed me into their lives were so-called rescue cats. Kiko, the namesake of this blog, was a motherless runt rescued from a bitterly cold horse stable. Kimba was a runt born to a diseased feral mother.
But neither of these tails . . . er, tales can match those of Tosca and Norma, the beloved kitties of The Scribe, who writes from Southern California that:
Tosca was rescued from a "punk" house back in the '80s. I was at a party and these idiots were swinging her around in a plastic bag for kicks. So I stole her. Norma was sole survivor of a coyote attack in the Hollywood Hills that took her mom and siblings.
When I moved to Spain in 1992, I brought them with me to deflect accusations of a Peter Pan complex. The accusations continued, but it was good to have friends. Tosca was much older and died in Malaga and I buried her under an olive tree. Norma and I moved onto Seville where our fortunes declined and we were shunted off into the Gypsy quarter. It was a dissolute time for The Scribe and coming home from frequent benders at the strangest hours, I'd come across Norma on some dark street and we'd walk home together.
Now she's retired and lives rather quietly, missing the litter box when she wants to make a point about the food service.
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