I was born in the beautiful Chicago area around April 15, 2002 in some lady's backyard. Guess that technically
makes me a stray, although I find that word rather distasteful. I allowed this woman to catch me and she took
me to a Cat Rescue place. There, I was dubbed “Milo” and sent home with a nice foster family to wait until my
“forever family” came to get me. On weekends, I would go with several other kittens (none of whom belonged
to my elevated social strata) to Petco, where we viewed prospective owners. Eventually, I selected a wonderful
family with which to go home. They changed my name to “Taco” (Mexican food rocks) but if they had known
how much I fancy tea, that oh-so dignified toddy preferred by our forefathers, they probably would have named
me Earl Grey. Unfortunately, I can only indulge my passion for this salubrious palliative when no one is looking.

My family consists of a really nice man, a really nice lady, and an 11 year-old girl who
kind of bugs me but for whom I make allowances because, after all, she is only human
and can't help gushing over me (I am extremely attractive). Actually, I like to hang with
her—how can I not love someone with such good taste? My family (or “staff” as I refer
to them) also had a Sheltie-dog named Zoe who—and I don't think I'm going out on a limb
here—didn't like me much. Zoe went to Heaven at 17 years old on November 17, 2006.
We miss her—yes, even I—and think of her often. See her picture in my Taco's Friends area.

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This site was last updated 08/29/09