Picture a penguin, or a dignified man wearing tails. Add a generous white mustache, slightly askew, as if he’s had tee much martooni. That’s our cat Sylvester.
I first saw him 19+ years ago, lying hopeless and sad in a tiny pet-shelter cage, so his official Valentine’s Day birthday is a fiction. He was so timid that, when he came home with us, he hid behind the refrigerator for hours. Now he is confident of welcome in any lap of any guest. Unfortunately, he most loves those laps that belong to allergic guests.
Sylvester was born to live in Cambridge, Mass. He is more “entitled” than the most brazen Harvard Square pedestrian.
One night we had guests for dinner, with the most distinguished of lady guests in my usual chair, right next to my husband. Sylvester, displeased, pronged his claws up through the chair into her dignified bottom. “Oh my!” she said. We shooed Sylvester off, saying “Bad cat, bad cat,” but he was still smirking under his lopsided mustache.
Happy birthday, Sylvester dear. I look forward to combing your now-motheaten fur coat for many more years.