On another note, apparently the sweet white cat that I named when I was in middle school and loved until and after I moved away from home, is gone now. So I guess the equal and opposite reaction begins now.
Gandalf was our cat, our four-legged man’s man, a hunter whose primary prey was the leaf. You’d hear him trumpeting as he moved unhurried through the woods or down the street, or you’d hear him right outside one of the doors, and there he’d be, with a huge leaf in his mouth, that he would triumphantly lay at your feet.
He was a fine, fine cat.
When I was out of town, he was the man of the house. Sometimes he stayed with Jane in our bedroom for the night. Cinder, the dog who sleeps near our bed and is very protective about her space, would allow it. It was Gandalf, just doing his job.
His nickname was Pointy – Gandalf was so formal. But he really could be pointy at times, especially when he wanted something. He’d follow you around the house, herding you, and he’d get up on…
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