Believe it or not, we have a cat named Pantera.
Believe it or not, I actually know who Pantera is. And, yes, I knew of the thrash metal band even before I knew about the cat. (Do I like the band? Do I dance daily in the Community Room and headbang to their tuneful sounds? Only Webster knows.)
And, believe it or not, you are about to lose your heart in 3…2…
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Pantera is one of those cats who has every reason to be meaner than the junkyard dog…but every intention of being as sweet as a Mallomar. This big-round-headed tabby angel has seen a siege of struggles, from an upper respiratory infection that just wouldn’t quit to a feeding tube. But, today, he’s living large and rocking - hard - in Suite B. (Well, if by “rocking hard” we mean purring and cuddling and head-bonking every new and old friend of every species. One can’t rock much harder than that, methinks.)
As it happens, our very own Geri turns out to be a hard-rock chick. Since her brother Ben’s passing, Geri has generally been a lone wolf…but Pantera is clearly her kind of cat. The two were recently found nestled together, in a mosh-worthy show of sweetness. (Yes, it would be perfect if I had a photo. But then y’all wouldn’t have to use your imaginations, and that would make Mr. Rogers sad.)
The word on the street is that it won’t be long before this senior member of the Transylvanians won’t be here long. There have already been possible-adoption nibbles.
And all the while, the brown tabby with the heart of gold and the head of hugeness just keeps singing his song, serenading our hearts into oblivion.