Happy birthday, dear Abbie

Our beloved guy cat, Abbie, was born the day Abbie Hoffman (who remembers him?) died, in 1989. We lived in Berkeley at the time, and were kinda sorta looking for a Siamese-y kitten to replace Jer's long-time feline companion Soma, a purebred Siamese. Our vet, the sainted Charlie Berger (who has since moved back east and on to other pursuits) knew we were looking, and one of his techs told us about another client, a currently-pregnant Siamese who lived not far from us. Turned out she'd been knocked up by a local tabby. Mom was purebred, dad was from a good neighborhood, we explained to friends later. The kittens, of course, were gorgeous. We picked out Abbie before his eyes were open.

It's always been difficult to get a picture of Abbie when he isn't squinting. Those delicate blue eyes are so sensitive to light. The eyes-shut-tight lines blend in with his facial markings.


Yesterday was Abs' birthday. He's moving more slowly than in his youth (aren't we all?), but he's going pretty strong at 19. Every now and then he still attempts to mount one of the girls but eventually loses interest, thinking, probably, now what did I come here for?

He's the sweetest-tempered cat I've ever lived with. He's tolerant, laid-back, and mellow. I can't recall hearing him hiss, ever. A Buddhist friend described him as a Bodhisattva.

He's lying across my forearms as I type. Love you, Abbiekins, Snabbie, Kinski.