Joyce McDonald Hoskins

Vegas is a Maine Coon Cat. Considered the Gentle Giants, and the King of Cats, they are also known for their intelligence. He doesn’t have papers so stating, but he is a Maine Coon Cat. Just ask him. He personifies everything that a Maine Coon Cat should be.

He is a rescue cat. He and my son Jason rescued each other.

It was 1998 and Jason, a native Floridian, a navy veteran, a graduate of the College of Oceaneering, was landlocked in Las Vegas and Christmas was coming. He had always lived near the ocean, and now, in more ways than one, he was in the desert.

The job he had relocated for was not materializing. The relationship with a girl in southern California was not passing the test of distance. The plants he had brought with him from California were dying. The chameleon his girlfriend had given him was sick.

He had spent many Christmases away from his Florida home, but he had never spent Christmas alone. This year he would.

Phone calls home consisted of me trying to come up with encouraging words. As Christmas neared, the conversations turned to gifts. What could I send him? My mother’s heart wanted it to be special. The vet had told him it was best to put Louie, the chameleon down, and Jason was lonely. The small apartment and his uncertain future ruled out a dog, but he thought a cat might be nice. I sent him the money to adopt a kitten as a Christmas gift. He spent considerable time at the shelter choosing one. Christmas is the one time of the year that kittens are hard to find, so he had to pick from older ones that were four to six months old.

"What’s he like?" I asked when he called home to tell me he had one.

"He’s sweet. He crawled up on my lap at the shelter and went to sleep. I had to take him."

"Had to, huh?" I couldn’t help but laugh as I wondered whether Jason picked the cat or the cat picked Jason. "What color is he?"

"Hm, brownish."

"Is he cute?"

"Sort of—well, no—he’s a bit scrappy looking. He was found on the street—and he’s sick. They gave me medicine for him and said he should get better soon."

We talked about a name and settled on Vegas.

The next phone call was not a happy one. The job situation was now looking even less promising. I suggested he come home. He insisted he wanted to give the job every chance to work out. But even worse, the kitten wasn’t getting any better. A trip to the vet brought bad news. The vet suggested he think about getting a different kitten. But true to his personality, Jason wanted to give it every chance to work. Always the animal lover, he wouldn’t give up.

Vegas, the cat, had a lot of ups and down’s health-wise, but after much careful attention, he got well. The scrappy, tiny kitten grew into a strong cat.

Vegas, the city, didn’t work out for Jason. The company went bankrupt before it officially opened. The plants were dead, the relationship with the California girl had gone south, and Jason longed for home and the ocean. The next time I suggested he come home, he agreed. Soon he had loaded his mini truck with his possessions and his cat and was heading east.

He called me from the road and the conversation turned to Vegas.

"I’m not crazy about cats," I said.

"You’ll like him. I know you will."

"I’ll bet he doesn’t like being in the truck. How’s he doing?"

"Great. He’s snuggled on my lap sleeping."

"You’re driving through Texas with a cat on your lap, talking on a cell phone. That’s not safe."

"Those Texas Rangers I see every time I look in a mirror are intimidating. Believe me, I’m being careful."

My thoughts turned back to the cat. "I hope I’m not allergic to him."

"You won’t be."

"Your dad doesn’t like cats. He’d better not claw the grill cloths of any of his antique radios."

"Momm!" Jason said the word the way only a grown son could get by with. "I’ll watch him. You won’t have to do anything. I promise."

When son and cat arrived home, I saw the sickly kitten had grown into a huge, beautiful, cat with a golden ruff around his neck.

"You do know that he is a Maine Coon?" I asked after we had finished with our greetings.

He looked at Vegas and then back at me. "No. What’s a Maine Coon?"

"Just about the best cat in the world. Your brother’s girl friend had one and Vegas is the picture of him. Coincidentally, his name was Rio."

I went to the computer and did a search. I came up with a picture of a Maine Coon Cat. The intelligent appearance of the bright golden eyes, the black racoon-like stripes, the tufted ears, the huge paws, the long plume tail gracefully wrapped around the body, the picture and Vegas were identical. The description on the website further confirmed Vegas’s lineage. He definitely had the characteristic swagging belly. And no wonder he took such pride in it. Show cats, the ones with papers, get points for their swagging bellies. The article also stated that they were big, especially the males. Vegas weighed in at twenty plus pounds.

Vegas did, indeed, turn out to be the best cat in the world. Jason went on the road working as a commercial diver and Vegas lived with me for nine years.

The king of cats, a gentle giant and intelligent, Vegas never had a problem letting me know what he wanted. "Follow me," he would indicate by doing his dog imitation, as he paced back and forth until I followed him to an empty food or water dish. "Look, look," a flick of the tail indicated it was time for his human to clean the litterbox. "Over here, over here," he’d meow to indicate his greens were not in the proper place.

Most people remember a gift received in childhood as their best Christmas present. Not Jason. His best gift ever was a scrappy, sick kitten. This past year, Jason gave up traveling, and he and Vegas now live together.

I loved that cat. I loved being his human. And I still do. He visits me often because, after all, I’m not allergic to him. Not one bit.