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ORIGINAL: xxblushesxx

He was pretty much usually bad, you know?
He didn’t care about conventional society, or how one is supposed to behave.
If he liked you, you were one of his best friends, if not, look out.
He has been known to draw blood on more than one occasion; never differentiating between the genders, and often times without any discernable reason.
Luckily for me, we had an understanding.
I would serve him, bring him treats, talk sweetly to him and pet him, and my blood would be my own.
I agreed, and so, a dubious friendship was formed.
He was debonair and suave; a modern day Johnny Carson or George Burns. The kind of man who attracts women of all ages, no matter his own age.
I called him “Mr. Handsome” and “Sir Slick”.
Those monikers fit him perfectly in my mind, and he, of course, agreed.
He was always perfectly turned out of course; he was a black and white tuxedo style cat, as if God Himself knew that this was one who would always have to make an entrance.
I’d heard the stories about him before I met him.
About how he had attacked everyone he met.
How he sprayed over everything he was given a chance to spray.
John had never had a girlfriend who had avoided the attack of the ‘Claytie Beast’. John’s  own mother had been attacked. The only person who had avoided this until now, was John’s grandmother, who, against all odds, had formed some sort of friendship with him.
I never expected to be that lucky.
When I was first introduced to Clayton, I was, in a word, terrified.
His reputation was not good.
His demeanor was not good.
My expectation of the future with him was not good.
I’m not really sure how we became so close.
My fear held me back for a while, as did his rising hackles, and the low growling sound coming from his throat.
In time, I made up to him, and let him know that I was on his side. (Unless he decided to tear me to pieces, then he was on his own.)
We led a wary existence. Each one watching the other for signs of duplicity, and finding none. Yet.
Then around Thanksgiving in 2006, he became very ill. He didn’t eat, respond or even growl. We didn’t expect him to make it through the holidays.
I spent more time with him, trying to ease whatever suffering he was enduring.
We bought him special treats, which seemed to interest him, and, as time went on, he rallied. Somehow, he made it through the holidays.
Not only did he make it through the holidays, but, he changed.
When he saw someone come into his room, he was happy and excited. He began to love attention and being brushed.
John said it was as if he had had a ‘personality transplant’
I said it was as if he had talked to God and been given another chance.
Another chance to love and to appreciate those who are around us.
And how many of us get that?
He seemed to revel in the role.
When he met my children, he was gentle and sweet.
I’m not sure if it’s because he had changed, or because he had that innate ability most animals seem to possess, identifying the innocents from the rest of us.
For over a year we went on that way.
John fed him in the morning, Ginger (another cat of ours) would visit him during the day, and I’d bring him his treats at night.
He loved being a part of any project John brought down to him. I think it made him feel important.
He talked to me as I brushed him, and he asked for his treats every night. He always deserved them. (Except maybe for the night that John had his luggage on the bed, and Claytie looked right at both of us and sprayed it to hell…)
The nights I couldn’t go down to him, John always said he asked where the ‘pretty treat lady is’.
I believed him.
Two nights ago, I fed him and Melanie (our scared grey lady kitty, who I call ‘Secret Scarlet’ because she likes to have a few snorts of my Bacardi and Coke but only when no one is looking) their good night treats.
I had to distract Clayton by giving him two sets of treats to keep him from stealing Melanie’s.
The next morning John told me that Claytie was sick. He was very ill when I went down the first time.
I went down there to check on him several more times that day, and he seemed to get better and better.
I went down last night to give him his treats. As I came down the stairs I looked over to where he had been laying. I saw him looking at me, waiting for his treats.
As I got closer, I realized he was not blinking. Nor was he moving. I waved the treats, and asked him to please talk to me, but, of course, he was gone.
He was pretty much usually bad, you know?
But I loved him, and he loved me. Maybe we understood each other.
What a wonderful, terrible, naughty lovable kitty he was.
God, I miss him.