In Memoriam -- Part 1

Darby was the runt of the litter. His two brothers, Gandalf and Rascal, were much bigger, but neither tom was particularly aggressive. We adopted the three of them at about eight weeks of age--not knowing that all three were actually tomcats. We only found that out after their first vet trip and also discovered that Darby was determined to be Alpha male. Day after day, he would launch himself at his brothers--attacking from behind boxes, from above while perched on the couch, even directly assaulting them from the front.

His brothers would slam him to the ground and he would immediately jump back up and attack again. They'd slam him back to the floor and stalk off--only to be bowled over yet again as this little ball of fire slammed into them. Alpha status was Darby's destiny.

Darby got sick while a kitten--his ear got infected, and of course he got really bad over a weekend when the high priced emergency clinics were the only vets open. They categorized him as a "white tiger." When we got home, he was almost immediately bestowed with his first nickname: "Tigey-wigey"--borrowing Sid the sloth's nickname for the sabretooth tiger in "Ice Age." Those nights when he was sick, he slept on my chest. He quickly adopted me as his person.

The antibiotics the vet put Tigey on gave him gas--which earned him next nickname--"Farty McFartfart." That little cat could clear out a room! As Darby got better, he developed an interesting trick. He would announce when he was about to do something we would not approve of--such as jumping into the big banana plant in the corner of our breakfast nook, our climbing the entertainment center or the mantle over the fireplace, (or the Christmas tree, or the curtains, or....). We would hear a "brrrrreeeeeee" followed by rapid paws pounding and skittering across the hardwood and tile floors. In human, we were certain he was shouting out "Kowabunga!"

Darby used to answer the phone when ever it would ring--especially as he slept on a basked full of bills and other mail that we kept on the table in the breakfast nook. We lost that battle with "Mr. T" early. Could you resist this face?

One day a little more then two years ago, as we had Darby and the rest of our pride out back, Darby got stung in the face by a bee--his face swelled up. Of course this happened on a Sunday--so we ran to the Hope Center again. The attending vet heard a heart murmur. A trip to the kitty cardiologist confirmed that our little guy had Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. Dr. Tyrrell told us that Darby could live out his life without feeling too much in the ill-effects department.