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Given to him by our granddaughter, my husband had a beautiful, silken Siamese. He named this kitten Honey Bear and then proceeded to spoil her. While he ate, she dined on tuna from a newly opened tin, or shredded home-cooked chicken, and tidbits from his plate. She was provided with clean bowls of fresh water and crunchy dry (cat) food at all times. Naturally, she had her own quality litter-box, which had to be cleaned after each use, and at night she slept under the blankets of his bed. During the day she could be found where ever he was. They watched TV or dozed in the big chair. Many hours were spent there. Sometimes he entertained her with dangle toys or even his cane. And so, as she grew, they bonded.
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But Chuck was very sick. And after he died, Honey Bear never again touched the big chair where they had spent so much time. She lost weight and preferred to spend a great deal of time outside. She was somewhat consoled by her brother, Big Bear, who had come to live with us during that time. Finally, she began to follow my son from place to place, sitting a few feet away, her back to him, ears drawn back.
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But about eight months after Chuck died, Honey Bear disappeared. Vanished. We tried everything but never found a trace. Maybe she just couldn't forgive him for leaving her.
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I console myself by remembering that Big Bear didn't grieve excessively, so he must know that she's alive somewhere in a home without the big chair.
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What a delightful and touching story.
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