We first glimpsed her as a tiny ball of fluff proudly carried around by a honking huge rottweiler. Bottle raised by a bevey of young kids and mothered by the rottie, Miah had no idea she was a cat. That was just fine with us.She was the first to greet guests at the door, carried on odd duck-like conversations with the backyard squirrels, and slept on my pillow with her tiny teddy bear (regardless of whether or not I was using said pillow). She served as lap warmer for years of bedtime stories, loved broccoli of all things, and felt it her personal duty to redistribute cat hair in our freshly laundered clothes. In later years she migrated from heat duct to patch of sunlight to electric blanket, blissfully oblivious to household chaos, but amazingly responsive to snuggling invitations.
A little mite of a cat with a persistent and booming voice, Miah was my shadow and constant companion. She bathed the kids heads during diaper changes and rode on my shoulders while I painted. She served as studio muse for what seemed to be an eternity.
An eternity that wasn't quite an eternity.
Catnip is flourishing on her grave, one shared with Turtledove, her longtime partner in crime, yet I still hear her scurrying about the house. Sometimes my longing is so strong I feel her at my feet or awake struggling to reclaim my pillow, the strength of her purr vibrating my sleepy brain.
It seems fitting that my little slip of a black cat, a creature who continues to share my life although in very different ways than before, has inspired "In Memoriam." She'd be curling up on my lap right now, waiting for me to read aloud the stories to come.
Kimberly, I read these stories of your kitties and it is through tears. I have had and lost more than a few and your words could be mine. The empty holes are many and seem to eventualy fill in with others, but the special ones are stored in our memories forever.
ReplyDeleteCheryl Lynn