Qu'est-ce Que J D?
Hugh Grant's Waterworld 2
I spilled some water dumping an ice cube tray
JD: OH NO! (to the dog) Hazel! Lick it up!
KL: Jesse it's like a cubic inch of water.
JD: Yeah that could spread infinitely.
JD: If not for Friction.
KL: I don't think so... eventually a dog somewhere would lick it up.
old feline animal i said how is tricks

The beginning was in August of 1991.

I remember being on holiday in Prince Edward Island, woken up in what seemed like the middle of the night; me and my best friend Nicky eleven years old and still not certain if the new LL Cool J or the new Fresh Prince was going to change our lives more.

In the cottage’s dark bedroom, one of my parents told me that our cat, the eponymous Kitty, had given birth to a litter of two.

A grey and a black tiny baby kitten awaited us when we returned from our week in the sun.

The grey and fluffy one my folks let me name, and to their minor chagrin I named her “Klunk” after the kitten in the TMNT Michaelangelo saves xmas one-off from 1985.  My mother has tried to subtly revise history ever since, pretending to only remember ever calling that cat “Charlotte.”

I could tell you stories about Charlotte’s brief stay with us, but I won’t right now.  She disappeared without warning or a trace one day before she was grown.

The sleek and black one was named by older, younger sister, Maggie.  She named him Tim.  There is some dispute as to whether this was after the protagonist “Tim Catchamouse” of the first Puddle Lane book in 1985, but although our Timmy is not known to ever have caught a mouse per se, we might have thought of him by that full name when a full name was required upon formal occasions.

Perhaps due to my early alignment with Klunk, I never really felt like Tim was MY cat.  We had a relationship that could have been described as aloof or mutually indifferent at times, but we shared a home for ten years and we both are warm-bodied and we would find ourselves in common cat/family situations often enough.  He would curl up on or near me and I would pet or scratch him and I filled his bowl more than one hundred thousand times and I let him in and out and he might rub up or headbutt me or do what it is that cats do for whatever reasons they do those things.

Sometimes we would be sitting on my parents’ couch, and I would be scratching behind his ears and he would be purring in the rich baritone of a healthy young adult cat and I would think you know, Timmy is really a pretty alright cat.  He keeps his nose clean, he doesn’t scratch or bite unless you wantonly and deliberately torment him like Dad does.  He’ll just about do, I think.

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