Sir Pepperton

I probably don't talk about Pepe as much as I should. Maybe because he's just not around as much now as he was after Tigger died. Especially now that Fiona's around.

When I wrote that feature story on humanizing pets for the Montreal Gazette many years back, none of these cats existed. It was really more of an intellectual exercise. I guess you could say I've grown into that particular story. In fact, if I had to rewrite it again, I'd probably do it in the first person.

Now, I'm convinced Pepe is my feline soul mate. I'm not sure how little Fiona is going to survive two weeks while we're away in Panama and Costa Rica and - wait for this one - the two of us are convinced Tigger has somehow figured out a way to ditch Heaven and is currently living in our Sony home theatre system, where he continues to remind us who's boss by randomly opening and closing the Blue Ray tray and raising the volume when we are trying to lower it. The Ouija Board will settle this matter some day, I'm sure, but that's a different blog altogether.

Back to Pepe. Amy will tell you that Pepe is the cat that I never wanted, but that's only because he was by far the cutest kitten at the SPCA and I was looking for more of an underdog. Little did we know. He was always super affectionate and very vocal, even as a kitten. A real pacifist as well. It's really only after the first year that we discovered he had some congenital arthritis in his spine that makes him limp regularly. Now he gets injections every month to try to alleviate some of the discomfort. He still loves to go out - always has - so it's easy to forget that he does live with a certain amount of pain every single day.

I think it's the reason his tail curls up like a pig. Might also explain why he's always complaining. So fitting that I named him Pepe after my father's father: the old man who was always destined to walk the alleys of Little Italy. (Amy will say she named him "Peppy" because of his spunk. This is still up for debate)

He may have slowed down a little but he still lives a fairly normal life. Every morning he wakes up and goes out. Then he comes in, eats and goes back out. And so on and so forth until night comes and he can't go out anymore. So I forget. I forget that he's not entirely normal and that someday, should his condition degenerate, we might have to make a difficult decision.

My brain avoids the thought at all cost.

But right now, Pepe is lying beside me and all is perfect. He is perfectly calm and perfectly at peace, having exhausted himself from all the night's whining. His tail is wrapped around my mouse and he's sprawled on my pillow. He's the only cat I know that likes it when you tap his bum; the only cat that still purrs half an hour into deep sleep. I read somewhere that purring can actually help cats heal and repair themselves.

Rumble away, my man.