Finnegan's Tale

                Thus far Frank has gotten the lion’s share of attention, but today Finnegan gets his turn.  Tiny gray Finny, about half the size of his housemates, was born to a feral cat in our alley and rescued by a neighbor with cat allergies.  We met him when our first cat, Tigerlilly, was dying of cancer and we knew instantly that he would join our household—not as a replacement, but as a joy.  Before we could take him in, my daughter and I first had a trip to Ireland scheduled.  On the Emerald Isle we searched for the perfect Irish moniker and landed on “Finnegan, the King of the Leprechauns” (although during his naughty adolescent phase we called him The Bun Rat, having stayed a night near Bunratty Castle).  We picked him up just hours after our return and soon learned that instead of the typical plotting, arrogant feline aura we’d come to expect from cats, Finny projected innocence and naiveté.   We attributed his special disposition to his lack of brakes.  Full of kitten energy, he’d race through the house, unable to stop in time to avoid colliding with walls and furniture.  After each crash he’d shake himself off and dizzily wobble away.

Finnegan had to see what was at the top of the ladder

                Finn has wizened over the years into a street smart wanderer.  (He’d stay outside permanently if we’d let him.)  Every day he cruises the neighborhood, greeting his favorite girls and checking in with each of the neighbor cats.  Because of his small stature, he’s often the victim of cat bullies.  He never seems to take offense.  Rather than running for his life, he’ll try to befriend some Tom that had just flattened him and end up being flattened a second time.  Oh well, maybe tomorrow the Tom will want to play.

He is a creature free of malice—a true heart of gold—the Tiny Tim of the cat world.  That doesn’t mean that he’s spared frustration.  Sometimes when he begs to go out and the answer is “no,” he releases an exasperated sigh and, shaking like a small child on the verge of tears, he nips my ankle and darts away. 

Finny is a snuggler, always sleeping close--more specifically, always sleeping on my knees.  I can roll him over, slide him over, move him over in whatever way possible and within a second he’s right back on my knees.  The only time he chooses not to sleep there is if I am reading—then he sleeps on my book.

Sweet Finny, heart of gold, loyal companion, loving spirit far larger than his little body—he is my constant reminder to turn the other cheek and never hold a grudge.

* Note:  Yes, Finnegan is a boy and yes, he is wearing a pink collar. In one week he lost about a half dozen collars in manly bold colors and since we bought out the rest, the store only had pink left.  Of course the pink has stayed in place for two years now.  Hopefully it doesn't contribute to his being bullied.  This is in no way a statement on gender specific colors--I think he looks quite spiffy in pink!