Molly & Milty ~ A Love Story

Hi, I’m Molly - Me-ow-lee to my two neighbor cat friends, Princess Gabriella (Gaby when you get to know her) and Chester. Princess Gaby lives in the house across the street and Chester lives in a ground floor apartment (rent-controlled) he told me, behind my backyard fence.

For the last seven birthdays, ever since I was a few weeks old, I’ve lived in Fred Duparlo’s house. I’m told by Gaby and Chester, both very knowledgeable in ark – i – tek – chure (I have trouble with that word) that this is a two story (I knew that) Tudor style house. They also told me it’s fake Tudor (that’s what I didn’t know).

Not too long ago, it was Fred and Betty Duparlo’s house. Miss Betty and I were very close. That’s just the way some relationships are. It was she who picked me up, just a kitty, out of a cardboard box in front of the post office. It was she whose lap I sat on as Fred drove us home in his foam green (not my favorite color) four door sedan. It was her lap I nestled in all those years we were together, and it was her hand that stroked my fur every night until I purred myself to sleep. So you can imagine that when she passed away two years ago I was very upset and sad.

I’m a little lonely, it’s true, but so is Fred. He’s almost seventy. Like I said, I’m seven,

slim, with a black saddle (that’s the overcoat) a white vest and white stockings. Fred is definitely not slim. He fills just about any chair he sits in and has a white fringe of hair on top of his head. My whiskers are long and magically whispy. That’s what Miss Betty told me. She called it a compliment. She used to complain to me that Fred’s short white whiskers, sitting right under his nose, were itchy. I’d laugh to myself when she’d throw the basket full of Fred’s socks into the washer, never blue or red or some pretty color, always black, just like the gray vest he always wears, with a pair of glasses sticking out of one pocket.

He and Miss Betty were married for forty-five years. Funny how cats know thingsbut Miss Betty would always point to the number on the cake she made every year on their special day. The last numbers were a four and a five.

Fred still comes home every evening carrying his briefcase from his downtown office. I remember Miss Betty very proudly telling me he was an accountant. She didn’t get into details, although I thought I was a very good listener. I believe I still am. Now Fred is my sole guardian. He buys the kibble and keeps a roof over my head, but Miss Betty was my protector, defender and the most comforting lap I’ve ever sat in. Let’s just say it was purr-fect love.