Happy birthday, dear Harry!

“A model of excellence or perfection” – how fitting: the word “paragon” is today’s word in A.Word.A.Day (words@wordsmith.org). Today is also Harry Summers’ seventh birthday.

As indicated in earlier posts – probably last year at this time! – Harry was our first ever cat, nearly seven years ago. Because we were so taken with the tiny, shy orange fluff ball, we converted wholly and happily to cats. (Before long, Billy Summers joined the family, but that’s another story, probably re-told every February 3).

Harry was a “rescue cat,” probably twice, although his exact birthplace was hazy in the telling by Deb, the woman who advertised Harry on Petfinder. Maybe somewhere in Hamilton, maybe in her own backyard – it was never clear.

What was clear: he was adorable. And very, very shy of people, giving us the idea he may have been a feral kitten. Whenever we visited him that summer, on the screen porch in Trenton, he got as far from us as he could. The other cats there were fine with people; not Harry.

Deb even suggested bringing Harry into her house for an extra week, to socialize him more. That was a good idea, although once he came home with us, he was still elusive for awhile.

And, until the first vet appointment, Harry was also still a girl, or so we all thought. The vet’s disclosure – that “Orangina” wouldn’t work for a name because we had a male orange tabby kitten – caused us to re-name our new kid.

“Orangina, “Harry,” the sex and name make no diff – we love him! Happy birthday, grown up pussycat, regal Harry!
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A (successful) feline missionary

Six years ago today, Harry Summers was born. About 10 weeks later, he joined our family. Today, we celebrate Harry even more that we do every other day.

What facets of Harry should we focus on here? His great beauty, only starting with his being a redhead? His intelligence and independence, both so often exhibited? His regal demeanor, which like his trust, was built slowly?

Maybe Harry as a feline missionary, since that’s exactly what he was. Harry converted Joe and me. Just as he did a turn-around from what we think was a feral kitten to a thoroughly domesticated cat, we became his happy servitors and caregivers.

Before Harry, we were proud, lifelong “dog people” who skirted cats in social settings and in concept. Once we saw the tiny orange fluff ball who became Harry, we were charmed into becoming different people.

Told he was a girl, we called him “Orangina,” a name that lasted till his first vet visit. After some re-thinking, he became Harry, and ever since, the name has seemed perfect for him. Amber eyes, long stripey fur, a huge fluffy tail . . . and a pre-meal whine that carries all over the house: that’s Harry.

So thoroughly did Harry convert us that we concluded two were better than one and he needed a pal. With Billy’s arrival four years ago (see Feb. 3 post), we had the “Summers boys.”

And so, “Senor Harry,” “Harrycat,” “Darling Harry,” “Harry H. Cat,” “Mr. Harry,” “Harry the Cat,” and “Rajah” . . . Happy birthday, pussycat. We’re just wild about you!
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Mobbin’ robins & 'the nose knows'

It was a lucky left turn on a walk in the park. Suddenly the greensward to the right of the curving path was filled with robins. Not just a few or even a convention of them. This looked like the robins of Mercer County had called a meeting – and everyone came.

A couple days after heavy rains. A bit of sunshine now and then and pleasantly gusty pre-spring air. And there they were.

If they were out for worms, these ground-feeders kept it a secret. They simply seemed to be out taking the air, as if to say what everyone else, robin or person, is saying: “It finally looks like spring!”

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Can a cat who’s crazy about “cat grass” sniff out two blades of it? in one room? of the entire house?

A couple weeks after Harry’s last pursuit of cat grass, then thriving in a little planter on a sunny windowsill, he got that look of “there’s cat grass here and I’m going to get it” again.

His last adventure ended disastrously for that crop of cat grass after he reached it and knocked it on the floor. These two new blades rose up in another pot, probably the result of a couple seeds landing there during the windowsill caper. They must have been highly aromatic.

Seeing Harry scan the plant stand and wiggle his nose was enough warning that the next event would be an avalanche. The two blades of grass quickly became history. The plant stand still stands. And the next grass Harry gets will be grown outside on the deck.
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