When I was looking to move back to Telford in the spring of 2005, one of the cats that lived in the field behind my parent’s house had a litter of kittens, and one of them stood out. He was a very friendly kitten for being a stray and would follow my dad around until he would pet him. Once I moved into my apartment, my dad helped me bring Clyde home, as seen in this picture.
My dad loved Clyde, and that cat would come running from wherever he was when he’d see or hear my dad in the apartment. My dad would come in, find Clyde and pet him while saying “Little Clyde!” in the most loving voice you can imagine. It was very sweet.
A few days after I brought Clyde to the apartment he started acting lethargic until one day I came home from work to find him limp and barely breathing. I called my dad in a panic, and he rushed over and we took Clyde to the vet. As it turned out he had a severe ear infection and was near death – we caught it just in time. My dad loved that cat so much that when I realized I couldn’t afford the vet bill, he paid it – without hesitation.
In our house we have two cats now: Clyde, who is now almost 5 years old, and Harley, who is almost two years old. Don’t get me wrong…I love them both. But Clyde…Clyde is special to me. He was given to me by my dad and shared a bond with him. For that reason, I just can’t help but feel that Clyde is…how do I say it…more important to me? More valuable to me? He’s a sort of connection to my dad that no other pet could ever be, and having him around makes me feel like I still have a living breathing part of my dad around.