The family cat passed away this week. She was twenty years old. She was born into a chaos of siblings, shuffled to our quiet shack, and given a partner/boss cat. She chirped like a mouse, her namesake. She was useless in catching bugs, but she did fit my hamster into her mouth once. Unlike her shifty roommate she despised the outdoors. She'd just rather not. If held to a lightbulb, she would lick it. She was a fat cat, gobbling up everything, including a basket full of Easter grass, but this past year after I took her to the cat salon for a shave, I realized she had gotten quite tiny. Itsy bitsy bird bones and shivery scalp. She was missing teeth and yowled at two in the morning like a cat pirate.
In cars she complained the whole time. She learned a cottage twice, but she spent her last days with my dad quite constantly living to jump into his arm chair as soon as he stood up. Toasty seats make good cat beds.
I don't have a favorite memory of Mouse. I guess I liked when we put a pumpkin onesie on her and she just laid on the couch like a festive slug. We never had a bond. She was just sweet and frumpy and a little clueless. I will miss her.
You can sort of be bird-brained and even a little gross, but people will still like you if you're just nice and generally happy it's another day.