I grew up with him. I woke up to his mighty roaring yawns. He was the last cat to wander in from the night, and the first push his way to the front of the food line. The house we lived in was a zoo. Eight dogs, and five house cats (most of whom were wanderers more than residents). My grandpa called this particular wandering grey furred beast… Tarzan; so, the name stuck. I couldn’t tell you the story of how he became a part of our family, I was too young, but a part of our family, he was.
To this day, I can name every mangey mutt in that house. (Hedda, Aspen, Razzie, Sassy, Tiger & Lilly, Tonka & Yoda), But I only remember the cats that were a part of my daydreams; and Tarzan filled them as a child.
His days were filled with long naps and patrols of the hallways. His reign was supreme. His force and strength were recognized by each and every feline… and even a few of our house pack canines.
Each night, as the evenings drew closer, Tarzan would begin to rise nobly from his days’ rest. He would stretch and strut amid the hallways’s setting sun. His routine was impeccably precise. Somewhere along the lines, turing Tarzan’s rise to power, my grandpa started feeding him a can of sardines before his nightly quests. The sliding glass door would open, and Tarzan would step outside, as my grandfather placed the sardines on the porch. After a few grateful mouthfuls, Tarzan would stalk prominently into the dusk setting wood. Fearlessly to the march of the crickets, he would go.