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I love cats, all cats, and although I already had three rescued shelter cats, I become infatuated with the Persian breed. I loved their grumpy little faces, their big blue eyes and fuzzy busy tails.

Through the Yellow Pages, (there was no Internet back then), I found a breeder and called her up. "Are you looking for a pet, a show cat or do you want to breed?" she asked me.

I wanted a pet. "I will put you on the list," the breeder said, "but if I can give you some advice, put your name on more than one waiting list. My list is quite long and it could be two years before I could have a kitten available for you."

Two years! Was she kidding? Apparently not.
So I contacted another two breeders and put my name on their waiting lists too.

A few weeks later I was contacted by Martha, breeder number one. "I have an available kitten," she started. "Well, Husky is not really a kitten anymore, he is about six months old, so he is more like a small cat. He is a blue color point. If you are interested you may come and have a look." I hurried over with the speed of light.

"I have to warn you," Martha said, as soon as she closed the front door behind me, "Husky has been previously owned and was returned to me. The people complained he cried too much and has a violent nature. He scratched at the kids when they tried to pet him. So they insisted I took him back. I was going to have him put down," she continued as we proceeded through the house, "because nobody wants a violent cat, but my vet wanted to examine him first. Turned out, Husky had been hurt."

By now we had arrived at the dining room where a small cat was sitting in the middle of the table. I took one look at him and fell in love with his flat face, his blue eyes and his bushy tail.

As I held out my hand, Husky quickly came towards me. He allowed me to pick him up, and as I stroked his soft silver/blue fur, he snuggled up against me and started to purr. "He does not seem like a violent cat," I remarked.

"Of course not," Martha said. "My vet found that the tip of Husky's tail is broken. I do not know what happened, but I will bet you anything that one of those kids where he lived did something to him, and that is why he cried and scratched. If you had been hurt, you would not want anybody to touch you either and you would cry with pain."

I needed no convincing. I had already decided that from now on Husky would live with me. I paid Martha a reduced fee and returned to my car with Husky still in my arms. He did not bite; he did not claw, he just purred.

Three weeks later, Martha paid me a surprise visit. "How is Husky doing?" she asked, and then added, "I was kind of worried seeing how the other people complained about his violent nature."

"Come on in and see for yourself," I said.

When Martha saw Husky, Mickey, Floppy and Fluffy all happily playing together and then later curled-up for a nap, she opened up her handbag, took out the check I had made out to her, and tore it up.

"Husky has found himself a home," she smiled. "And for that, he's on the house."

Learn more about this author, Conny Manero.
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