I got Bucko in 1980, to be my friend. I was just out of college and was living in Sioux Falls working at Gamble Robinson, a grocery wholesaler. I had no friends! This after being surrounded through friends during the prior 22 years. Bucko needed a friend - he was at an animal shelter, one of a litter dumped of there in the fall of that year. He got his name from Vicki - who was working at a sheltered workshop. One of her clients used to say "*ucko, Bucko" Insert F.
That darn cat was obviously warped by his tough early cathood. He was mean. I didn't plan ahead when I picked him up - so he went along when I stopped at the store for a litter box and food. When I came back - he had disappeared! Catnapped? No - the damn cat had climbed underneath my dashboard. Only the beginning of Bucko's bizarre sociopath ways...
He was a gray tiger stripe with a white belly and paws and huge eyes. Another thing you should know is that Bucko was an athletic freak that was always leaping higher and pushing things off ledges. He pushed a 5 lb bag of sugar off my frig in Omaha - what a mess. He was a retriever who would play fetch all night with a wadded up ball of paper - if he felt like it. Paul would shoot the paper wad into the air and Bucko would leap to get it and bring it back.
At our first home in Creston, we had our first walk in closet. When I would lean down to put my shoes on, Bucko would launch himself off my back and onto the top shelf. He'd also do that to sit on top of the door. Wacko Cat!
Bucko loved me! He would lay on my chest while I read my book. He'd rub his face on my chin - marking me. Rub, rub. Chomp - he'd bite me and run away. It still makes my scalp tingle when I think about it!
When Bucko was about 2 or 3 he got sick - digging in the litter box, but nothing coming out. He had some feline disease where urine crystallized. I freaked out - bawling of course. The vet gave us medicine to crush and put in his food - for the rest of his life he had to be on a special diet.
He hated the kids. And the dog. Bucko made himself pretty scarce by the that time in his life. He hid downstairs a lot - squirreling himself up in the downstairs ceiling, he could get himself all the ways into the garage - where Paul finally saw his little white face above his workshop area.
When Bucko was 13, he got sick and just wasn't getting better. It was time to say goodbye. Paul got the honors of taking him out to the vet clinic. He was buried out by 12-Mile Lake under a tree. He was quite a kitty and I loved him. I need to scan a photo to put on here.
