Timmy was this furry little scrap of a thing who ran around all the time, shouting that nobody ever listened to him. Even though he spent most of his time ignoring us, sleeping on the sofa or licking his paws. But as soon as we made it clear that we had our own lives? He was jumping up off that sofa after us, screaming bloody murder. That mouth of his was louder than any other mouth, wider than any canyon. It echoed throughout the entire house without mercy, and usually at the most inconvenient times.

Because closed mouths don’t get fed. Life had taught him that lesson. Being the runt of the litter had taught him that lesson. His brothers and sisters had taught him that lesson. Always clawing and climbing over each other to get close to the warmth of their mother, and to the milk source. Yeah, Timmy had learned that if you don’t step on other people to get what you need in life, you get stepped on yourself. So he decided very early in life that he had to be louder, pushier and more bold than everyone else around him. That’s how you got by.

When he came to live with us, he let us know right away that he was here. There was no isolating him in the bedroom so he could get used to the smell of our other cats on the other side of the door. Within hours of crashing into our lives, he was pushing his way beyond the threshold and landing himself smack in the middle of our lives. We really weren’t given a choice in the matter, and he never went back. It was Timmy or nothing.