I stole the title. But it fits.   Oliver Hereford once described a cat as a pygmy lion who loves mice, hates dogs, and patronizes human beings.

How true. The title and the description reminded me of Ringo, and no matter how I tried to blog about something else, the passing of Ringo hit me so hard I just had to put one memory down in writing and make myself feel better.

      Ringo looked like a pygmy lion. He sat in his suite, day after day, like a lion, a smallish kind of lion, looking majestic, royal, sure of himself.

      Three years ago, as a volunteer to Tabby’s Place, I brought my sister in one day to see the place. She and I had decided to sponsor a cat, and our mission that day was to peruse the list of available “special needs” cats and make our choice. Cyndi, my sister, ignored the cats on the list, took one look at Ringo, and it was love at first sight. He was “special needs.” Diabetic. And he had some problems with his rear legs. Back then, there was even talk of providing him with therapy, which they eventually did. Cyndi immediately decided Ringo was her man. She wanted to sponsor Ringo.

     Which meant I had to go to Pam, who handled the Special Needs program back then and convince her to add Ringo to the list. Pam had to find someone to write the updates. But that was really no problem. Soon after that, Ringo ended up on Tabby’s website. In a sense, he became a bit of an unofficial star around the place.

Each week when I came in to volunteer, I would visit him in his suite. If he wasn’t the sweetest cat. He was rooming with a bunch of cats at the time including Lily, who had her moments, and Emma, who it was best to keep your distance from. Ringo was the calming influence in the group. When Ringo was moved to the staff room, he took up permanent residence near the window and used to love to sit in the sunshine. It’s such a small thing to walk into the staff room, hang up your coat, sign in, and go over and hug your favorite cat. When he was adopted in February, I was happy for him, I really was, but sad for myself. We all missed him. We all missed that connection.
 
I know that cats don’t live forever. Only in our hearts. And in our memories. Sometimes I imagine Ringo is still there, under the window, lying on his favorite blanket, in the sunshine. That handsome face is gazing up when you go over to give him a hug.

The cat who walks by himself . . .