Blondie Buster was a large, long-haired, orange and white cat. He had an easily distinguishable question mark of white fur on either side of his body. This is the first pet that I remember. Mother and Gramma told me that they worried, before I was born, that the cat would resent me. He had such a special place in the family and was spoiled, of course.
The opposite turned out to be true. I'm told that he slept at the foot of my crib and growled when someone approached. Oh, yes, I do remember as a tot, Blondie's growling at the front door when the bell rang. This probably close to 20 pounds of defender actually sprang across the room onto my mother's back when she swatted me for some two-year old's infraction. He also helped when I was learning to walk. He let me hold onto his erect tail as I tottered along, patiently lying beneath me when I fell on him.
He was stolen more than once. He was so unusual looking, and, I guess, irresistible. The first time he was retrieved thanks to Mother's little Manchester Terrier, B.D., pronounced Beedy (I never knew what B.D. stood for). She was walking the dog one day and B.D. started barking and pulling her toward a particular house. She was so insistent that Mother decided to follow her lead. She rang the bell, a woman answered and B.D. had a conniption fit. She barked and strained at her leash. Mother asked if the woman had seen a cat of Blondie's description. She denied it; but, hearing the dog, Blondie appeared and dashed out the door.
Another time the family saw him being cat-napped. He was gone for months and they lost all hope of seeing him again. One day Gramma heard meowing outside the breakfast- room door. She opened the door and there stood this filthy, skinny, fur-matted, shaking, unrecognizable cat. He limped into the house, headed for my grandfather's room and crawled under the bed. They knew then who it was. His paws were bloody. He must have walked for miles and miles; but he made it home.
Blondie Buster had a special relationship with Grampa, too. He walked two blocks to the streetcar line on busy Vermont Avenue in Los Angeles with Grampa when he left for work, rain or shine. Then he walked home. At 11 p.m. Blondie was waiting for the streetcar when Grampa came home from work, every night, to walk home with him.
The last time he was stolen I witnessed the event. I was about four years old and playing in our front yard. Blondie was making his usual tour of the neighborhood. He visited various houses and accepted a pat or two from any neighbor who happened to be outside. He was across the street and down four or five houses. Four boys, I think teenagers, were walking on that side of the street. When they came up next to Blondie, one of them reached down and grabbed him. They ran off. I screamed for Gramma, but they had disappeared by the time she came out. We never saw Blondie Buster again.
I never stopped wondering what happened to him, if he were treated well, as he deserved to be; and I will never forget him. There are certain people, and Blondie Buster was almost human, that never leave one's memories, especially impressionable young memories. There have been many memorable pets along the way during my life. Blondie Buster was the first of those.
11/15/11
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