Our Milo-Schmoo-Boo-Bubba-Monkey-Doodle-Bub. Our trooper. Our Little Man. He is gone, and I am numb and weepy with the too soon-ness of it all.
On a walk to the park a month after moving into our Portland house, I chose him from a box of free kittens. Tiny and fuzzy, his pink belly a veritable flea highway, it was love at first sight, at least for us. He perplexed, infuriated, and irritated Paris, while learning everything he knew from her. I hope, in my heart of hearts, he has found her, and it is happening again.
He was our cuddle bug and heat seeker, pawing his way under the covers, lying on heat registers, bathing in the warmth of the sun. His meows were loud and demanding; barking orders to eat, share laps, to go outside, to spread a little joy. Deathly afraid of strangers, yet the man of the house when it came to keeping the neighborhood felines at bay, he gave not so much as a whoop-ti-do if he spied an opossum or mouse, lying prostrate in the sun mere inches away and yawning. Occasionally he chased squirrels (coming very close once), sadly, a few times killed birds. A cat among cats.
He was good and sweet and beautiful, a lover with dazzling eyes. Sixteen and a half! It was a very good life, one I am honored to have shared with him.