June 2000. I had just ended my first serious relationship and was about to graduate. Holly Howe's cat had a litter of kittens, most of which had already found homes. She was worried the last, a small black ball of fur, would head to the shelter if no one took him.
My family was already supporting two cats, but being the headstrong, rebellious teen I was (not), I decided to take him home that night. My parents eventually accepted him.
I gave him the name Titus after one of my favorite Shakespeare plays (I wanted to call him Saturninus but my mom forbid it).
I'm sure everyone believes this of their own, but he was the best cat in the world. He'd greet me when I came home, watch me from the driveway when I went to work in the morning, sit on my lap when I sang, roll on his back for rubs, lick my hands (even when they weren't covered with human food) and even bring me half-eaten rabbits.
He was 9 and died this past Tuesday of FIP (I had to look it up). There will never be a better cat. As my brother once pieced together from bits of newspaper clippings:
Titus- He is Not a Monster, Love Him.