Our little household suffered a devastating loss yesterday.
Way back when, 17 years ago to be precise, VampireLover gave me a very special gift for my first birthday as a husband; a Maine Coon kitty, barely two-years-old at that time. Frisky – soon to be renamed Felix by yours truly – set off running the second we set her down on the floor of our first apartment.
And she kept going until the age of nineteen; cats don’t normally live that long, but Felix never cared much for being normal.
- She would retrieve a stuffed bee from the back of the couch, drag it down the hall and leave it in our doorway – every single night.
- Playing in the hallway was a nightly routine, until someone would walk by and send her racing back to the apartment; the wrong one!
- The carpet installer was pouring glue when Felix decided to walk on by. She’d take two steps, shake her paw to wipe the glue away and keep going!
- She was fond of sleeping in boxes, Pepsi cases, laundry baskets, wherever she could get her kitty butt squeezed into.
- Our first Christmas tree became one big cat toy. She’d dive, hit a glass ball which would shatter against the wall and then circle back to strike again. She became tangled in the lights once and boy did the kitty expletives and fur fly!
- Her jaw would shake like a bobble head when she spotted a bird through the patio door.
- We came home one night to find the remainder of a bag of catnip strewn across the kitchen floor – placing it on top of the fridge for safekeeping was a futile gesture.
I could go on, but how do you summarize a life in a single post?
We eventually acquired a baby girl and two dogs, but Felix took it all in stride. This year she made her home on our portable dishwasher and took to singing in the middle of the night. That didn’t go over all that well with the rest of us, but we took it in stride.
What else could we do? She was family.