Reporter reflects upon 15 years with pet

Date published: 3/4/2008

WHAT DOES 15 years mean to you?

To a boy or girl, it means the opportunity to get a driver's permit.

To a parent, it means a new kind of panic.

To a couple who has lost a child, it means uncelebrated birthdays.

To a pet owner like me, it means a lifetime.

Fifteen years ago, a stray cat joined my family. It was actually the second within a year to do so.

In early summer 1992, my brother found a small white kitten crying in the bushes in front of the house we were renting. After several days of calling it "here, kittie, kittie," we decided to name it just that.

Kittie was about 6 months old when Scrappy came along in late January.

Being dog and horse people, having cats was a new experience for my parents, my younger brother and me.

Scrappy was thin, and his black and brown hair was dirty.

He also walked with a pronounced limp.

Somehow he had not only survived the winter thus far homeless, but had survived being shot three times in his left shoulder.

Before long he was a healthy 12 pounds, but the limp has remained. Most days I don't even notice it unless someone visits who doesn't know his story.

When Kittie died in March 1995, he survived her, too. For several days, he entered the house and walked around meowing for her.

He sat on the sofa with me as I cried because Kittie was hit by a car three weeks after my 17th birthday and I was not able to tell her goodbye. She was only 2 years old.

By then we also had two dogs. Kirby, a beagle-pit bull mix puppy, had waddled up our driveway one summer morning in August 1993. Sunny, our neighbor's dog who seemed to be a German shepherd-collie mix, was already about 12 years old.

Sunny had always visited us, but after Kirby joined our crew, she started eating and sleeping at our house, too.

She passed away in late April 2002, just before I transferred to the University of Mary Washington in the fall. She was at least 22 years old.

Date published: 3/4/2008