Last week, Rufus attacked Graeme. Let me start by saying that Graeme is fine. He had a large scratch across one cheek and some pretty deep punctures from being bitten on the back of the neck/head. I probably overreacted at the time, but I was terrified. It was totally unprovoked. I figured one of the cats would nip or swat at Graeme when he pulled their tails or grabbed handfuls of their fur. This was totally random and I was sitting right there within arms reach of both of them and I couldn't stop it or see it coming.
After lots of tears (mostly mine) and one night's sleep to really think about it, I decided I had to give Rufus up. I adopted him TEN years ago. Isn't that crazy? I got him when I was waiting tables at Ganache my senior year of undergrad. He's been with me through two UNCG graduations, my first teaching job, my marriage, my first baby... He was my first baby boy, in a way. I'm heartbroken. But when I thought about the possibility that next time, he might swipe Graeme in the eye or bite him and cause an infection, I couldn't see any other way. You should have seen the look the volunteer gave me when I walked out of the shelter with an empty cat carrier. No judgement at all, just like his heart was breaking for me.
Good-bye, Rufio. I loved you a lot and I will miss you. Even your snot. (No, I didn't mean for that to rhyme but it's good to be able to laugh in times of sorrow, right?)
