Pete died a little bit ago.
About 9 years ago, my stepdad found this three month old, almost starved kitten on the side of the road and brought her home. He and my mom already had eight cats at the time, so Mom asked if I wanted her. I said sure.
She was so skinny you could feel every bump of bone when you petted her, but she was a lovey little thing. As I was a big fan of the TV show Oz at the time, I named her Peter Marie. The "Ugly" bit got attatched when my dad first saw her because she was an ugly little thing.
We had her a month or so before she learned how to give herself a bath. After that, she bathed everything within twenty feet of her. And if you were in that radius, well, you got a bath, too.
My grandma once said she had the face of a cheetah. After that we referred to her as a pygmy cheetah. She was a great hunter, always getting in trouble from bringing us birds (and I'm pretty sure she had something to do with the headless squirrel in the garage), but her greatest kill was always her Pepe. It was a dog toy that someone left at the house, a purple monster that she'd drag around by its eyes.
She was definitely the alpha kitty of the house and we bipeds were just there to do her bidding. She didn't like to be told no, but she didn't hold a grudge, either. She couldn't. She'd forget why she went in a room, you could tell.
We're all going to miss her, even the neighbors. Both of them on either side of us and the one across the street knew here and would speak to her when she'd stop by on her rounds, surveying her territory like the queen she was.
I'm going to miss her. We've had a lot of cats over the years, but she's only the second one that I could call mine.
Rest in peace, Ugly Peter Marie, my bubby cat.
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