Harold referred to Sebastian simply as “the cat.” It wasn’t until after Sebastian died that Harold told us his name.
For 12 years Harold and Sebastian (a name his previous owner had chosen) shared a comfortable, second-floor, 60s-era condominium.
For the first nine years a very pretty calico named Julie lived with them. Julie was coquettish, sunny and solicitous, something of a daddy’s girl.
Sebastian was not the smartest cat in the Friskies commercials and his play often turned into something Julie didn’t enjoy.
Harold says cats without claws (another decision by Sebastian’s first owner) feel defenseless and resort to using their teeth. Julie did have claws and could fight back but she hated being cornered by her roommate.
It wasn’t until Julie passed away that Sebastian acknowledged that Harold even existed.
On a scale of ten Harold rates his enjoyment of Sebastian as only a five, considering moments of “cuteness,” maybe a six. But there were also times when the tabby’s approval sank into Richard Nixon territory. Those teeth.
A good diet with occasional table scraps, visits to the vet, a clean and safe place to live, Harold provided everything a pet could ask for. He believes Sebastian took life on Hinman Avenue for granted. He had never foraged in the alley or needed to outsmart the coyotes.
As Harold gave us updates on Sebastian’s decline he showed the concern and exhaustion common to caregivers. “You can love a cat without liking him.” he told us. “Liking is an emotion, loving is a responsibility.”
