Marcel

    Long ago before the dinosaurs went away, or anyway before high school graduation, my girlfriend and I were out in my parents' front yard and saw a most adorable little cat. He had no collar nor any other sign of ownership, so we decided that he was ours. As it turned out, I feel pretty badly about this decision thirty-odd years later, but until I get that time machine completed what can I do?
    Her parents were OK with taking in a second cat, so he had a home. The debate broke out immediately: I declared that his name was Marcel; everybody else said that his name was Mickey. Well of course everybody else won, but I still called him (and in my mind still do) Marcel.
    This is the part I hate: they already had a declawed cat. They declawed Marcel/Mickey, too. I still feel rotten about it. I guess he got a safe place to live for years and years. (Our relationship unraveled due to distance during my first year in college, so I never heard how things turned out.) But I hear nothing good about what happens to the emotional life of a declawed cat. I think it reflects poorly on anyone who thinks that their furniture and curtains are more important than an animal's health. Amelia keeps her claws for as long as she lives; if she destroys stuff, well, stuff can be replaced. But I'll take it out in hoping that we gave Marcel a better life than he was going to have otherwise. He was a pretty good fellow.