Archie

Archibald Tungsten was born on Arch Street in Philadelphia. A friend, Kristen, rescued baby Archie, his feline mother, and siblings after she witnessed them being handled by rough children.



Archie was so sassy and lovable. He would sprint back and forth across the apartment; when he wound enough speed up he would slide Tom Cruse style down the hall on an area rug. He would break into the bathroom while I took showers to stick his paws, palms up, under the stream of water.

Arch had a boyfriend when he and I lived on Lombard Street. His boyfriend brought him gifts of dead birds and mice, and placed them outside Archie's favorite window.

Archie would hug your legs and bite your feet if you slept in on the weekended, causing him to eat a later breakfast. He hated flowers, and once gobbed up a whole bouquet. When I got home from work Archie would follow me around the apartment, and would make bread on my belly when I snuggled up to watch TV or read a book.


I lost Archie, and wish things would have turned out differently. I have come to terms with not seeing Archie anymore, but I still miss that sweet kitty.