Delmar just hopped off my lap following the approximately five minutes of affection he displays per day. Now he's in a corner, growling at imaginary objects. Soon, no doubt, he'll sit in the chair beside me, attempting to bite my elbow as I type.
He was the odd one out among his litter-mates, all of them more attractive, more docile, more pleasant. Del might have been marked from the moment he got stuck emerging backwards from his mother's womb, and my sister-in-law attempted to gently tug him out, and his tail snapped off in her fingers. He just wasn't meant to be normal.
His mom was a stray cat my brother's family adopted, and though she's since been spayed, at that time they had no choice but to take the kittens down to a garden supply store and put them up for adoption. But first, I could pick one for my own, since I was at that time living with them following the end of my marriage. I needed a companion, they reasoned.
All those adorable kittens, plus one cranky, wiry little half-tailed malcontent. The choice seemed obvious.
The other kittens were adopted quickly, but if Del had been on the block, would anyone have chosen him? Maybe, but it's unlikely they would have kept him, with his neurotic little yowls and angry moods and aggressive nature. He's not cute, he's not gentle, he's not what most people would want in a cat.
But he's my buddy, and I can't imagine life without him.
