In 2010 after a young black cat was born his mother went crazy and killed all of his siblings not long after they were born. Luckily for him the cat’s owners managed to get to him before his mother did. They cared for him and reared him by hand, nick-naming him “Titch” as he grew into a big bruiser of a thing.
A year or so later they had to find a new home for him, and that’s where I come in. After replying to an online ad my brother went to collect him, and he became a member of our family. The “Titch” moniker was more of a nickname, so I decided to name him after my favourite comedy character, Homer Simpson.
Like his yellow-skinned namesake Homer was a big loveable fool, but we immediately knew that we had a problem with him. Temperament-wise there was nothing wrong with him, and he fit in with us quite easily, but he was drastically overweight. In caring for him his previous owners had spoiled the hell out of him, treating him like a china doll and overfeeding him to the extent that his belly was almost touching the floor. So the big man was promptly put on a diet and soon lost those excess pounds.
Homer’s interactions with our other cats were also a joy to behold. His upbringing meant that he hadn’t actually been around other cats before, but our other moggies, especially our the “mother” of our brood Frodo took care of him, and it wasn’t long before he knew what it meant to be a cat in our house.
But sadly, after just over ten years in our care, Father Time began to catch up with him. His health began to fade a couple of weeks ago to the point where, this past Sunday morning, there was only one more thing we could do for him, and that was to send him on his way with dignity at the age of 11 years old.
To say that I miss the big man would be an understatement. It just doesn’t feel right that he doesn’t come to see men anymore when I get up first thing in the morning, or that he isn’t there in our kitchen shouting at me to feed him.
Some say that black cats are unlucky. I couldn’t disagree me. Homer was my third black cat, and they’ve all left me with memories I’ll never forget.
Rest in peace Homer. Will miss you lots big man.
A year or so later they had to find a new home for him, and that’s where I come in. After replying to an online ad my brother went to collect him, and he became a member of our family. The “Titch” moniker was more of a nickname, so I decided to name him after my favourite comedy character, Homer Simpson.
Like his yellow-skinned namesake Homer was a big loveable fool, but we immediately knew that we had a problem with him. Temperament-wise there was nothing wrong with him, and he fit in with us quite easily, but he was drastically overweight. In caring for him his previous owners had spoiled the hell out of him, treating him like a china doll and overfeeding him to the extent that his belly was almost touching the floor. So the big man was promptly put on a diet and soon lost those excess pounds.
Homer’s interactions with our other cats were also a joy to behold. His upbringing meant that he hadn’t actually been around other cats before, but our other moggies, especially our the “mother” of our brood Frodo took care of him, and it wasn’t long before he knew what it meant to be a cat in our house.
But sadly, after just over ten years in our care, Father Time began to catch up with him. His health began to fade a couple of weeks ago to the point where, this past Sunday morning, there was only one more thing we could do for him, and that was to send him on his way with dignity at the age of 11 years old.
To say that I miss the big man would be an understatement. It just doesn’t feel right that he doesn’t come to see men anymore when I get up first thing in the morning, or that he isn’t there in our kitchen shouting at me to feed him.
Some say that black cats are unlucky. I couldn’t disagree me. Homer was my third black cat, and they’ve all left me with memories I’ll never forget.
Rest in peace Homer. Will miss you lots big man.
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