Two of the kittens were orange, and one was grayish with other colors. The gray was claimed by my Hunny, and named Cygnus. One of the orange climbed out of the bathtub (their first bed, because it was easily cleaned) and landed on his head quite firmly. We named him Dizzy, because he was for quite a while. The third kitten was agressive, and I named it Nefertiti. Nefertiti grew testicles and was renamed Ramses. My Hunny simply called him Punk.

I don't have any pictures of Dizzy or Cygnus. Dizzy thrived, but had a seizure of some sort and died one night, two weeks after we had brought him home. Cygnus didn't thrive, despite my efforts to feed him all of his reccomended milk-replacer dosage. It was more "food" than he thought he wanted. He died two days after Dizzy. I do have the memory of sneaking Cygnus into a Styx concert so I could feed him every two hours. It was an outdoor concert at Pine Knob. The gatekeeper patted down our blanket and somehow missed the little lump of kitten tucked inside, much to my relief.

Punk survived. We took him to the vet to get all his shots, including the FeLV immunization. We had him neutered when he was six months old. When he was thirteen months old,we took him back to the convention where we adopted him, and proudly showed him off. A couple months later, the trouble started.

At first, he sneezed alot. We knew another cat that did this, leaving kitty-boogers everywhere, and thought perhaps he would be like that. The coughing started. I wasn't too worried, figuring he would just ride it out in a week or two. It lasted longer and I thought perhaps it was an allergy. He didn't seem to be suffering -- no loss of appetite or thirst. Reality got in the way and demanded our attention. We returned home from a week long trip to see our Punk half-wasted away. We rushed him to the vet, and got him started on antibiotics. He seemed to improve -- I didn't have to wipe his nose anymore, and he pigged out as much as always. We went away for a weekend, made arrangements for his Saturday vet visit, and took him in again on Monday. The vet looked doubtfully at Punk and was about to suggest euthanizing him until we pointed out that he hadn't lost his appetite. The vet gave him another shot. Twenty minutes later, Punk had a seizure and died.

We miss him a lot.

This is Punk's trick: sitting up and taking the kitty treat without using claws. My Hunny taught him that.

A few weeks after they brought her in, she had an ear infection.  I watched her start to come out of it, just as they finally noticed that she was sick. During a 3am trip to the vet, we learned she had the Feline Leukemia Virus. An anti-biotic shot finished off the ear infection, and we decided to wait out the Leukemia.

She acquired the nickname Runcaster when we were discussing the fallout of some group politics, and we noticed Shadow playing with a bag of rune tiles. The meanings of the runes seemed to fit the situation, and she looked cute pouncing on runes.

The following Christmas, I went on vacation for a few days. When I returned, my roommates had skiped town.  Shadow was mine.

I did reasearch on FeLV, and started her on kitten food. I kept her on a strict diet of commercial kitten food with catnip treat supplements for about 2 years, before adding cat-safe treats of human food.  This diet was maintained for approximately 4 years. After that, I switched her over to adult cat food. 

All the brochures and pamphelets I found on FeLV stated that the average life expectancy for a kitten with the virus was 6 years, providing they survived the first year.  Some exceptions lived out a normal lifespan.

Watching Shadow move was like watching a black quicksilver. She flowed about the room.  Seeing her leap onto a bookshelf  or the back of a chair was like watching a falling object filmed in reverse. At night her long fur sparkled with static electricity, prompting the nickname "Sparkle-Kitty."

She was an escape artist.  You never saw her leave unless she wanted to be seen.  Once I learned this, it was difficult to convince my new roommates of her ability to sneak past your ankles without being noticed.  The first time, she left through my roommate's open window.  When she returned that night, asking to be let in, my boyfriend mistook her for some annoying stray and sprayed water at her through the screen until she left.  I recovered her the next night from the neighbor's woodpile.

Her last escape happened when she was four years old. She snuck past my boyfriend's feet while he stood in the doorway talking to a friend who insisted she didn't have time to come in.  My boyfriend wouldn't believe that she'd snuck past him like that. I finally found her under my trailer two days later.  She had a broken jaw and a bruised eye. The first vet I took her to wanted to put her down because she was FeLV positive, and read me the riot act for letting her outside in the first place. Needless to say, I don't recommend that vet. I found that my regular vet had Saturday hours and took her in. He wired her jaw in place and cautioned that she would have to be on soft food for 6-8 weeks. After the first week I saw that she had thrown her wire, and after the second week I caught her eating solid food.

She lived well for another two years after that. One day I noticed she had stayed in her daily hiding spot far longer than usual, and I dragged her out for a look. She had lost weight, and was a bit wobbly. I checked her gums and they were very pale, signifying anemia. Since I knew that anemia was one of the first signs of the leukemia, I had her put to sleep rather than watch her slowly waste away. I wanted to remember my flowing drop of black quicksilver.

He got underfoot, shed a lot, and hated little smart-mouth dogs. He'd sneak around and bite at people's shoes and pantlegs if they moved too fast. He got nippy if he was cooped up too much. It was a treat to watch him run himself out, with his plume tail waving like a flag. For all that he looked the spitting image of a border collie or Austrailian shepherd, his mother was a half doberman, half beagle with all the size and smooth dark coat of a doberman.

He once tried to help herd a horse that got loose, but he didn't mind well enough and got kicked. He was doing pretty well until that point, but getting kicked convinced him he was in the wrong business. He even gave up nipping at people after that.

A note about the photo:
No, it's not retouched.  The grin is real.
This photo was taken in 1991.  I did nothing to it except scan it and crop the image.
Ain't it cool? :)