Thelonious Monk

Monk Monk, as he is called in short, came into my life and heart just a couple of weeks ago. He’s actually not my cat, he lives with some of my friends.

The earlier times of his life are cloudy, since he’s an animal rescue cat. He’s quite young, so probably he was a “last year’s summer cat” that someone abandoned. It lies outside of my understanding how anyone could abandon a cat. When he was found he had been homeless for quite some time, the hunger apparent in his body—not at all in proper shape for a cat his age.

But now, he’s got the softest fur, gray and brownish tigré; long, lean legs with paws quick to grab anything slightly reminiscent of food. He likes to play with my shoelaces when I’m trying to tie them, he mews and asks questions we can’t answer. And he’s never playing hard to get, he’s always close to a warm purr.

Is there anything better than to hold a purring cat in your arms?

My friends live in a five-person collective in a spacious apartment in central Umeå, and they have volunteered as a foster home for cats during the last six months. Monk is the fourth foster cat and counting, and he will only be there until someone gives him a more permanent home, preferably somewhere he can have his own outdoors territory.

As soon as he was dropped off by the animal rescue lady—who herself takes care of a huge amount of cats—the name discussion started, and someone said “Monk.” It just stuck. Thelonious Monk, the jazz cat, the legend of Umeå. —Viktoria O., 23, Sweden

★★★★★

Rats (Not the New York Subway Kind)

On a total whim, I entered an exotic pet shop one day searching to buy a rat. How did I end up here? I’m not entirely sure. All I know is I woke up that morning convinced that I would buy a pet rat by the end of the day, and there was absolutely no stopping me. It took quite a bit of convincing for my mother to agree, but she surprisingly did, and next thing we are standing in this pet shop full of pigs and chicks and who knows what other strange animals.

I asked the lady at the counter if she sold rats, and she brought out a huge cardboard box full of baby dumbo rats. They were each running around in the box and practically tripping over each other. I scooped up one in my hand and his little eyes met mine, and I knew then that this was the one for me.

He had gray and white spots all over his tiny body, and fit perfectly in the palm of my hand. His little dented whiskers stuck out from his button nose, and I stood there thinking about how adorable this little guy was. It was adorable. It was a rat. It was an adorable rat. Who knew?

It has been three weeks since I bought him. He runs around his cage and loves to eat grapes. Though he is only five or six weeks old, he is intelligent and friendly. I plan on teaching him tons of tricks soon (rats can even tie shoelaces)!

As for a pet rating, I give rats a solid four out of five stars. They are such warm little creatures and love to be loved, despite the assumption that they are dirty and scoundrels. Really, rats have big hearts for their tiny bodies and love bonding with their owners.

So, buy a pet rat! They make great companions and will be sure to lift your mood, from affectionately sitting on your shoulder to happily eating your dinner leftovers. —Molly B., 18

★★★★

My Dog

13153301_217254378658460_21209085_n In today’s world, it is a really tough task to find a true friend. Ever since my dog has become my pal, he has fulfilled all the characteristics of a good friend. He is loyal, obedient, and is not selfish like most humans are nowadays. My dog is always active and playful and that never makes me feel lonely. —Mook, 13

★★★★★

Dakota

IMG_1238 I first met my best friend when he was just a kitten living on my grandparents’ old farm. After many years spent in a regal white colonial house on hundreds of acres of evergreen trees in rural Pennsylvania, my grandparents had decided to move to a smaller condo closer to town. My family had driven to visit them, help move some furniture, and say goodbye to the house. It was a seemingly impossible task for me. I was an eight-year-old girl who had spent her whole childhood on that farm exploring and adventuring while the adults stayed inside and drank wine around the fireplace. 

Tiger was my grandparents’ cat, a big mangy fluffball with clumpy fur saddlebags and every feasible parasite. Even though, over the course of our relationship, Tiger had bitten me a few times (once in the vegetable garden when I tried to pick him up, once in the driveway when I tried to pick him up, once near the birdbath when I tried to pick him up. Let’s just say I learned my lesson.), he was my steadfast companion. Or, rather, I was his. 

Whenever we came down for Christmas or Easter, I would sneak out the creaky front door, bound to the barn. I’d inevitably find Tiger mid-mouse hunt, twitching his whiskers and leaning down, ready to pounce. We would weave through the rows and rows of evergreen trees that populated the retired Christmas tree farm, grazing the soft needles as we passed. We would lie side by side in the high grasses on the northern side of the farm, pretending that we were real tigers hunting in the Great Indian Desert. We would climb up the rickety ladder to the barn loft and explore the rusted old tractor parts and rakes. 

When my family and I visited my grandparent’s farm for the last time, I beelined into the barn and found, to my surprise, not Tiger, but three kittens: one black and white, one speckled, and one jet black. My poppop explained that a mother cat had given birth in the barn a couple weeks ago and had abandoned her young here. Would we like to take one home? Tiger entered the barn where we were standing and brushed up against my leg. I realized for the first time that my grandparents were leaving him behind to stay with the neighbors; that I might never see my feline friend again. 

The kitten with the jet black fur and the white patch on his heart arrived home with us in August 2007, accompanied by only a bag of sand (his litter), and a cardboard box (his litter box). Since then, I have grown as his main caretaker in more ways than I can count. While Tiger was my intrepid companion, Dakota is my best friend, my brother, my baby, and I couldn’t imagine life without him. —Amanda C., 16

★★★★★ ♦