"Miss Scott, who lived in London, spent 12 years traveling from one hospital to another in Britain and elsewhere in Europe, pretending to be ill so that she could become a patient.  She was admitted to hundreds of hospitals and underwent 42 operations, nearly all of them unnecessary."

- The New York Times' obituary for Wendy Scott, dead at the age of 50 ....
 

     It was exactly one year ago today that this cat first came into my life.  It's a story I've told before, but I think it bears repeating on this special occasion (especially since it keeps changing for the better with each retelling, exactly as human psychology demands).
     I'd gone out early in the morning to put fresh water in the birdbath when I was startled to see what looked like a woolly mammoth hunkered down in my east basement window well.  Having utterly forgotten whatever woolly mammoth management skills my distant ancestors may have possessed, I opted for screaming, running back into my house, and locking the door.  
     I spent the rest of the day slipping stealthily down into my basement at regular intervals, peering through the glass at the beast in my well, and humbly offering its penetrating green eyes my best goofy expressions in hopes that one of those expressions, at least, would make clear that I was simply too toxic to eat.
     Imagine my surprise when my wife came home from work and accused me of wasting an entire day making faces at a cat! 
     When night fell and the alleged cat was still in our well, we called the neighbors over and they confirmed that, yes indeed, that appeared to be a kitty.  When the people who used to be our neighbors (as well as their parents, a plumber, and three experienced masochists) had also come over, surveyed the situation, and arrived at a similar species identification, we got a towel and conned one of them into actually and physically lifting the beast out for us.  After they lived to tell the tale, we had them deposit said beast in our garage and set out finding the zoo or circus it had escaped from.  When repeated efforts to reunite it with its previous feeders failed, we became the proud parents of a bouncing baby boy, who just happened to have taken the form of an adult feline.
     We named him Jester, just because a week before I had decided on the spur of the moment that if I ever had a cat (haha), that's what I would call it.
     Most people are sure I should have settled for "Chester."
     I have done little on the spur of the moment since....
 

     "I think we ought to sit down and make a list of the many ways Jester has changed our lives since coming to live with us," my wife said last night as we were struggling to come up with a special way of commemorating today.
     "I'm afraid my hand doesn't have that much writing left in it," I gently broke the news to her, much as a compassionate Einstein himself might have had she suggested he tally up all the grains of sand in all the food served by all the Denny's in the world.  
     I mean, I get up before noon, just to feed Jess.
     I give him water, clean his litterbox box, wash his feet, powder his butt, and get him his yogurt and his diabetes medicine before I even have my breakfast.
     Mornings are spent undergoing performance reviews as part of my new career as a scratch post.
     Afternoons are spent spinning wild tales about those mythical days back when it was possible to eat in front of the TV without sparking a Close Encounter of the Teeth Kind.  
     I have spent countless hours going to pet stores and vet offices that I never even knew existed before, often buying products and services no one has ever once bought me.
     I have not spent a full day away from home in the last 12 months.
     We do not get up in the middle of the night for a snack or to use the bathroom for fear of disturbing His Highness.
     If I'm not careful, I answer the phone now with a "Meow."  
     We have traded our French Regency decorating aspirations for the Early Shedding look.
     We are thinking of renting the apartment across the street from us just for those catnip-addled stuffed animals which seem to demand 24 hour care.
     The list goes on and on.  I'd continue it but it seems a onetime woolly mammoth has his fatt tail dRaped acrosss mY eYes....