I grew up around cats. They were never pets, always closer to brothers. My mother's cousin helped run a cat sanctuary so we accommodated a steady flow of wonderful felines...The fiercest of them all was called Charlie. Who did not arrive via the sanctuary, but was stolen/rescued from a house where my mother used to clean for some extra cash. Poor charlie was a large cat, but attacked daily by the household dog. The owners really saw nothing amiss with this...posh, stupid people. and preferred the hound for he was better for the kids. Mother tried telling them, several times, but they laughed off such concerns, so one day, after her tolerance levels peaked, she took him!! Brought him back to our place in the countryside to live with our Auntie next door. From suburban misery, Charlie was thrust into a habitat with few cars, many trees and mice and other cats and badgers, freedom, and the option to explore at will a vast terrain, kill whatever he fancied. He blossomed, maintained his vicious streak, but truly became a King. Our cat, William, was often petrified of him, for he could turn at any moment, but I loved him dearly. And will never forget, watching him wash himself in the sunshine, a wasp buzzing around him, which landed on a patch of fur he was about to lick. Charlie bit the wasp between his teeth, spat it out dead, and continued to wash! What a cat...
Still, given my far greater love and eagerness for kinship with the non human animals I have lived with, I best stick to the present, in terms of a focus and response to this thread.
I have been close to Oscar since he was a few weeks old. My ex-harlot of a girlfriend had wanted a marmoset, when we moved here to Australia in...late 2008. Alas, they were rather tricky to procure. So...we/she journeyed through the local dog rescue centre websites, found a hound she wanted, we made the call, prepared to grab a lift to collect him the next day but just before we left, we made another call and he had been taken! Dismay was upon us both. Quickly picking up the trading post, we found a hatchery of maltese x shitzus in a nasty suburb nearby, so off we went.
The burly tradesmen in charge of the pack was clearly seeking $ with little interest in the welfare of the dwarf puppies who were lacking vaccinations and only 3 weeks out the womb of their emaciated mother. They were all so cute, squeaking and nuzzling, desperate for attention and salvation. I wanted to take them all. We had decided, beforehand, to secretly make a choice after meeting them all, then collude. One of the pack was less pretty, less friendly, less pleasant all round. He looked like a baby gremlin, his idea of nuzzling was to attempt to gnaw, his cute squeaks seemed more like a growl you would expect a baby vampire to make. It had to be him...and we both chose him. The owner scratched his balding head, smiled and asked us...
'you sure you want him?? he is the only one with a name...FuckFace'
The deal was done.
Riddled with worms and fleas, it took a while to get him Right, health-wise, but his spiteful streak, whilst gorgeous when small enough to pick up with one hand, has become somewhat more gruesome as he has grown.
less than a year later, when the harlot showed her ugliest of colours, then pleaded for me to head home to England with her, I told her NO, FUCK NO. I was staying in Australia, with Oscar. What kind of father deserts his son?? Not me. So she left, and I remained with my beloved hound. Whom I was barely apart for in the following three years, he was my closest companion, in fact, in some ways, he may well have kept me alive...for I was a lost soul in an ocean of vodka. Woman to woman, bottle to bottle, and whilst I cared little for myself, I always had my paternal love for him keeping me afloat. Whatever happened, Oscar had to be fed, walked, kept healthy, safe and happy.
Now he must be...5 years old. He remains the rotten apple of my eye. I would always rather have people come here, than head out, because I like to include him in everything I can, give him the best life possible. Other than my mother, perhaps even stronger than that maternal bond, his well being comes before everything and everyone else.
He is a randomly vicious, spiteful, arrogant, growl-monger, who looks too cute for my own good. I often ponder that he is the devil himself, poorly hidden in a dog-suit. Smart, adoring of my savage Queen, hateful of the vast majority of other canines (which is mutual) yet also always playful, often affectionate, and loves more than anything, simply being a part of our lives.
I have saved him from the jaws of death once and also bare the scars of his fangs on my nose from a ferocious, typically needless attack on my face...regardless, I love him purely and deeply. I always will. Even writing this makes me warm and smile from deep within my core.
) 
