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Duke was a wonderful cat and an institution in our family. He was practically
as old as I was; in cat years he was ancient. He was a Maine coon cat—huge,
orange and furry!
We got Duke one spring around Mother's Day. He was an immensely cute
kitten, and because Maine coon cats take time to mature he remained
in kittenhood for three or four years.
Gradually he began to fill out and develop the massive frame and mass of fur for which his breed is so well known. Despite his size, he was an amazingly zany cat with whom you could play for hours with a simple piece of string and wax paper. It's quite a sight to see a 20-pound cat twitch his ears and crouch down to pounce and fling himself wholeheartedly at a piece of crumpled paper.
As an older kitten, Duke discovered that at full length he was just the right height to stand on his hind legs and wrap his long front legs around my 5-year-old waist. He waited along a short pathway of forest undergrowth that separated our yard from a field behind it. Hunkered down among the weeds and grass, he jumped up just as I came through, grabbed me around the waist, gave me a squeeze, then let go and scurried off at high speed. He never used his claws.
Duke was capable of heroic feats as well. He was only a year old when he disappeared for a week, unscrupulously taken, we now believe, by a neighbor who moved away at that time. We were all very sad at the loss of Duke, especially my mother.
One day as she sat on the sofa, facing our sliding glass door and patio, around the corner came a scraggly, wet, dirty fur ball, limping and hungry. Duke had returned! We never knew the distance he had traveled, but it was more than enough to wear down the pads of his paws.
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