For I will consider my Cat Buju
He is not supposed to be alive. My daughter heard his cries from inside a dumpster where she found a garbage bag sealed with duct tape. She tore the bag open and he licked her hand. He barely weighed a pound. And when he curled up between her palms, she remembered a scene from one of her favorite movies, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective: "My little Buju." He now had a name.
Our family nursed Buju back to health and when he was strong enough, we took him to the Humane Society to be neutered. Since then, Buju, who used to be scared of the slightest sound has grown stronger and bolder to the point where he has become a fixture in our lives: playing tag with my son, nuzzling my daughter, purring in my wife's lap.
Buju and I are the ones who are awake while the world sleeps. When I'm watching TV, he reminds me that I have a bald spot and licks the thinning hair on my crown. And when I'm falling asleep, he nudges me until I awaken and then he pads over to the window where he becomes, like Jeoffry,our guardian: "For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary."
He also thinks that he is a writer.
On most mornings before I go to work, I begin my day by writing. Buju escorts me downstairs to my computer and sits beside me. He plays with my pens, chews on my pencils, and like any good critic, offers commentary at the appropriate time.
And when I refuse to listen to his endless carping or he disapproves of the text, he slaps his paw against the keyboard and holds down the keys for emphasis: asssssssssssssssssssssdddddddd
And despite my screams, "Buju!' which when he first came would have sent him scurrying under our beds where he would have stayed for days, he has now grown to the point where I don't scare him any more.
He must also think he's one of my children.