Little Pete, who was shown in this blog just weeks ago with his brother, Chicago White Sox, was struck and killed instantly by a pickup truck last night. There’s a kitten-sized hole in my heart.
He was a perfect Xerox copy of his dad, Pete, and was beginning to figure out his role in a large extended cat family. At three months old, he’d caught his first mole and was very proud of himself.
The coyotes were really noisy last night (full moon) and all of the outside cats were uneasy. Every one – except Nicky – turned up on the back deck for their dab of warm milk (yes, they’re spoiled. But it’s half milk and half water; don’t tell them, they love it). Each cat paused at their dishes to listen to the hunting packs. Then we all heard the coyotes catch some unlucky animal.
When I hurried towards the soybean field across the road, all of the cats came with me and the older ones ran past me and across the road, presumably to look for Nicky. I’ve never before seen a group of cats exhibit such close family ties as these all do.
I was calling, trying to get whoever out of the soybean field and at least into our driveway when a pickup came barreling down the road. It slowed very slightly, and three of the older cats made it back across the road by inches. But when Little Pete tried to follow his uncles back home, he couldn’t outrun the truck.
Little Pete was a beautiful orange and cream, good-natured kitten, and will certainly be missed. He’ll wait for, and eagerly greet each one of his relatives as they cross over the Rainbow Bridge, I’m sure.
In the small greenhouse, three small kittens: Little Pete in background, silver-grey Leilani in front, Chicago White Sox to the right