The Krueger who survived his encounter with the Bobwhite
Quail in 1961 was a bold and enthusiastic young fellow with a culinary habit may
have led to his demise a year or two later.
He loved Japanese beetles and patrolled the top of the grape arbor,
feasting. Dad found him under the grape
arbor, beyond resuscitation by the vet, and blamed it on the damn beetles. Who knows.
Fast forward to the summer of 1966. Beth could walk, I was hugely pregnant with
Shelly and my husband brought home a kitten.
Because pets were not allowed we drew all the apartment curtains and
lived in semi darkness until we moved the week after Shelly was born. Krueger was named in honor of the late
Krueger, who was named for college friend.
I’ve named many cats after friends.
In spite of living in semi darkness the first five months,
Krueger had a happy and expansive personality.
He and Beth were fast friends and playmates. She drug him around; he invented the game of
chase Beth and knock her down. Round and
round the short dividing wall between the kitchen and living room, then Krueger
would double back and jump on her chest, knocking her
down. Laughter, squeals from two year
old Beth and the game recommenced.
We moved from the apartment to a house to another house in
Krueger’s long life, without ruffling a whisker, but most of his years were
spent in our Mentor house. Krueger
started the cat trail that led from one corner of the back yard, diagonally to
the elm tree then straight into the back garage door that led to the door into
the house. In twenty years there I
watched that cat trail, used by all my felines, turn to hard pack with no grass
and visible as a depression under the snow.
My neighbor across the street called me one evening to come
get my cat’s litter out from under his porch.
“But my cat is a male.” “Well,
he’s the father!” “My cat is neutered.”
“Oh, please get these kittens!” I
don’t recall if I did.
I was gifted a canary once, in a Taj Mahal cage. Harry Canary led to Carrie Nation, the finch,
and her husband and babies, and a parakeet each for my daughters. There was a
cat population to deal with too; Krueger, Phoebe Snow and BoomBoom. The solution was to hang the cages by hooks
in the ceiling. This led to hard packed
areas in the carpeting underneath; cats sitting patiently, waiting for a bird
to fall. It never happened.
Somewhere around the age of thirteen or fourteen, Krueger
began to decline; his liver rapidly failing.
Dr. Kroh, our wonderful vet, took good care of all my animals. He put Krueger’s throat back in his body
after a failed encounter with a pair of Airedales. He put a pin in BoomBooms front leg when the
shattered bone couldn’t be rejoined. The
last time he saw Krueger Dr. Kroh said take him home, make him comfortable for
a few days.
We put Krueger on a warm bed under the kitchen table, food
and water under his nose. We carried him
out occasionally to relieve himself, and he watched the family activity from
his spot. At Saturday chore time Shelly
spread papers on the table and took down her parakeet to clean his cage. The first time ever the parakeet jumped
straight out to have a look at the big world.
He escaped outstretched hands over and over. He landed on the floor, strutted right past
the helpless cat. Krueger stretched his
neck, went chomp and had his bird.
Krueger died the next day.
But think about it. All his life
waiting and then the bird walked straight into his mouth.
Krueger was borrowed from the internet