The Years of the Cat


You were just a tiny little furball when you joined me on my journey.

You insisted on sitting atop my chest and purring when I first lay down to go to sleep every night.

And if I tried to sleep in too late you made it clear that was unacceptable by batting things I cared about off of my dresser until I got up cussing you and chasing you around the room.

Through a lof of my own personal drama you were always there, rubbing against my leg, insisting that it was more important for me to let you sit in my lap and be petted than to focus on all that silly typing and mousing stuff.

You developed some really bizzarre habits, like insisting on getting into the shower after I got out so you could lick the bathtub, when you had a perfectly nice, clean water bowl in the kitchen.

And you loved sitting in the window keeping an eye on the birds just outside.

You followed me across the country without question when I moved, accepting the new place as an exciting next chapter in the ongoing adventure of our lives together.

I don’t know exactly how or why you happened to be in the middle of the road at the exact same instant in time as someone’s car, but there you were.

Ten years we were together.  Now you’re in a little grave behind the house.  I miss you, Cat.

2 thoughts on “The Years of the Cat”

  1. Dave, man I am so sorry. Losing a cat in that way swore me off pets for years. Now we have three and Helen and I are pretty attached to them. We hope your cat is hunting happily in the where the salmon-chickens roam. And that your next tiny companion finds its way to you soon.

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