He was born in a parking lot: his mama dropped him and kept on going. Still wet, he was picked up by the boss's personal assistant who passed him on the top kitten rescuer in-house. He spent his early life with her, going everywhere in a carrier with a bottle of hot water wrapped in a rabbit fur. He went to the dentist, to the chiropractor, shopping...everywhere. When he was three months old he came to live with me. He howled at an amazing volume when given a bath in the ladies' room when hygiene required serious measures. Harley grew into a 15 lb cuddle bug who loved women, dental floss, broccoli and cheese potatoes, and pouncing on me. He slept on me, (in later years) ate from my plate, terrified veterinary assistants with his screaming rage at being at the vet, screeched like a banshee when I clipped his claws, and parked on me every time I sat down prepared to spend the next month in that spot. His kitty kisses resembled a massage with 00 grit sandpaper: I have never seen a cat with a rougher tongue than Harley. I never actually called him Harley when talking to him: he was his whole life "Baby." After 18 years, he left me and I miss him still, a fiber torn from my heart never to be replaced.