Adoption

Saint Cloud, Florida. It was the early morning, say 4:00 or so, of Christmas Eve 1995. I was usually up at that time, even on a Sunday morning. The cats, you know, don't know (or care) that Sunday is any different from Monday or Thursday. They want me up. Anyhow, this particular Sunday morning, Harvie and Itty Bitty- aka Ms Mouse- were raising a ruckus, looking menacingly out the sliding glass door to the screened in porch. There was a "cat" door through the screen to the outside so our kids could come and go at will. We kept cat food on the porch, which was a great temptation for raccoons and opossums. Usually the most reaction the girls had to an invasion by one of those critters was to open one eye and yawn. "Go ahead and eat," they'd say, "there's plenty more where that came from." They only had a problem if some strange pussy came on the porch.

I stepped into the middle of the melee and turned on the light, expecting to see a cat glomming down at the food dish. The dish was empty- not unusual after a night of marauders on the porch. I couldn't see any, but Carmen had plants out there, places to hide. I opened the door. It was bitter cold, in a Florida way- maybe 35 degrees- and quick as lightning a tiny orange striped kitten ran in the door and began doing the figure eight rub around my feet. The old lady cats were beside themselves. "Kill it, Dad! Step on it!" they seemed to say. Instead, I went into the kitchen and got out some food. "Awww, don't feed it! It'll never go away!"

We took him along to Vero Beach to visit my parents. My dad said, "Why, he's no bigger than a peanut." and a name was born.

Peanut Butter stole things. I looked out on the porch one morning, and there was a small black and white stuffed toy dog just lying there. Later on I looked out and there was a pig. Hmmm. Over the next couple of days the entire animal cast of "Babe" was assembled on the porch.

Not many weeks after that we moved to Orlando. Within days more Babe toys began arriving. We thought about canvassing the neighborhood trying to return the toys to their rightful owners, but we never did. Then the piece de resistance, Peanut brought home a thing kind of like a hot pad, kind of like a beanbag. We didn't even know what it was, much less where it came from, but all the kitties loved it- they'd rub and rub their faces on it, roll their whole bodies over it, and just lie there clutching it to their noses. We reasoned that it must have had catnip sewn up in it. But even today, thirteen years after he brought it, our two resident cats still love it just as much.

When we moved to the Boston area, we didn't want Mr. Butter roaming the streets, and we knew we couldn't imprison him, so my parents volunteered to take him in. He still lives in their cabin in north Georgia, hanging out on their screened-in deck in the treetops.