Twenty-one pounds of unconditional love. That was my Timmy.

Of course, he didn't always weigh twenty-one pounds. He was smaller as a kitten and, unfortunately, he was smaller at the end of his life. And his birthday probably wasn't on March 17. But I believe that all kitties' birthdays should be on a holiday, and since he was born in the spring, I chose St. Patrick's day. I don't know if Timmy had a drop of Irish blood, though. His ancestry was unclear and I never got him interested in genealogy.

Timmy and I met in 1985 when my dear old cat Buster died at age eighteen. Buster was a darling tuxedo kitty too, and part Manx, with a little crooked tail that looked like a question mark. Beloved Buster's passing left a hole in everyone's heart. Eventually my mother called the Jersey Shore Animal Center, looking for Buster #2.

"Do you have any tuxedo kittens?" she asked. "Preferably male?"

"We have two," the nice shelter lady said. "They're brothers. They should stay together."

So we adopted Timmy and his brother Tommy. The two little guys were teenagers who got into everything. Tommy was a pistol who demanded to be the center of attention. Timmy was sweet and gentle. Unfortunately Tommy used up all of his nine lives, and then some, by 1986 when he was hit by a car while he was chasing a squirrel across the street. Timmy was left as an "only kitty."

Timmy didn't feel any obligation to climb the corporate ladder, be a productive citizen, or contribute to the gross national product. But that's okay because he took on some essential household tasks. He put me to bed at night, letting me know if I stayed up too late. He got me up in the morning, sometimes with kisses. He guarded the back door (some called it "looking out the window," but I know better). He patrolled the garden and kept the mole population in check. He kept his grandma (my mother) and my aunt Maxine company.

Timmy was a big guy and he liked his food. Around 1996 he was diagnosed with diabetes. He uncomplainingly took his two shots a day and only grumbled a little bit when it was time for another blood test.

Everything seemed fine until the summer of 2001, when Timmy began having trouble with insulin regulation. Then infections set in, always troublesome for diabetics. The night before his death he went into a convulsion. The emergency vet called the next day with some very bad news - blood tests and a sonogram indicated that he might have cancer. It broke my heart, but as a responsible kitty mommy I decided that it was time for Timmy to be euthanized. I told him he was going to live with his grandma up in Heaven, which I firmly believe.

Yes, Timmy was twenty-one pounds of unconditional love. He taught me that it's okay to spend some time sitting among the flowers on a sunny day, that it's good to tell people that you love them (even if you don't know how to purr), and that there's no better way to wake up in the morning than with a nice wet kitty kiss.

He's survived by me, his adopted sister Freckles, and everyone who got to know what a wonderful cat he was.

Here are links to my other pages:

• Genealogy.  The Ambrose, Custead, Freyermuth and Stewart families of western Pennsylvania, USA.
• Creative Writing.  Some of the stuff I've done while fooling around with fiction.