The Cat Who Hated Me

Posted on December 19, 2014

Hope Ramsay, small town romance, last chance romance

Ollie at 18 years

I am an avowed cat person.  Cats size me up and know that I’m an easy mark.  The Georgia Good Ol’ Boy, not so much.  In fact, when I first married him, he had no use for cats. But that all changed when Oliver North came along.

We adopted Ollie from the local shelter when he was about five weeks old.  And he lived with us until he was 18 and finally gave up the ghost.  He was the strongest, healthiest cat I ever owned.  He could climb up twenty or thirty feet into the big maples in my front yard, and we never once had to call the fire department to rescue him.  He was fearless.  And he was definitely the Georgia Boy’s cat.  In fact for almost two decades he slept between us.

My dear husband often cuddled him as if he were a teddy bear, providing many “awww moments” for me.  But in all those years sleeping between us, Ollie always pointed his sharp little claws in my direction while my husband got to cuddle his soft back.   The message was clear.  The Georgia Boy belonged to him and I needed to keep my distance.  To Ollie, I was merely staff, assigned the daily job of feeding him and not much more.