Frank's beard showing as he scratches his chin.
We always had cats when I was growing up, and when I moved away from home (and after I got rid of the allergic boyfriend), my first concern was finding a cat to live with me. My sister had adopted a stray a few years earlier. It was actually a co-worker of mine who had found him wandering the streets of Helsinki, and since she knew I was a catlover, she asked me if I would take him. I agreed to take him home. He was a beautiful young, sleek black cat. However, he didn't get along with our old family cat, Thompson, and we couldn't find his original owners, so finally my sister agreed to take him.
His name became Svarta pantern (Swedish for the black panther), Pantern for short. He was a wonderful, sociable and affectionate cat. Before he was neutered, my sister agreed to let a co-worker of hers pair him up with her female cat, who was in heat. She had four kittens, of which Frank was one. My sister adopted his sister, Matilda. The other two kittens were adopted out, too, but poor Frank went to two different homes and was returned for reasons that shall remain a mystery to me.
Finally, I'd got rid of the allergic boyfriend, and asked my sister if the last kitten was still available. He was, and just a few days later, on Easter 1988, my sister and her co-worker showed up at my door with this gorgeous young black-and-white boycat with the cutest little beard. In fact, he was named for his little goatee beard, after Frank Zappa.
Frank's beard showing as he scratches his chin.
Frank was just as friendly and outgoing as his father (though they both became grumpier as they got older), and they had the same habit of switching their tails constantly.
Frank enjoying the sun on our balcony.
Frank at age 16 playing on the cliffs on the island.
A few days after his 18th birthday, I had to face the fact that Frank's body was shutting down. In spite of a good appetite, he was losing weight at a very fast pace. His body just wasn't able to use the nutrition he was ingesting. So I made an appointment with the vet to come and release him from his suffering (which he wasn't showing me). He was just a bag of skin and bones. Miranda missed him for a week or so, then she was back to normal. Caliban acted like nothing had happened, but then, he had only known Frank for a few short months.
Here is a haiku an online friend of mine (and Frank's) wrote after Frank was PTS:
Sweet black and white cat
Rises beyond his body
To play forever.
Mark Edwards, 8th December 2005
Frank's ashes are scattered on his beloved island, under the same rosebush as his best friend, Nikki.