When I was in fourth grade, someone dropped a box full of kittens in the parking lot where Mater worked. She managed to catch this adorable little calico kitten and brought her home, much to Pater's annoyance. This little kitten grew up to be a beautiful, rather fat, cat. We called her Moustafolees from the play Cats. I know we spelled it wrong, but that's okay; it made it more her name.
She was a great cat. She liked to hang out near us if we were on a couch or bed. Her tummy would dust the ground when she ran. She loved to be petted. If we started petting our other cat, Riddle, she'd watch us expectantly, waiting her turn. We called her Stafa-lump a lot.
At the start of this week, she got lazier than usual. She started laying around the house in unusual places and didn't really acknowledge our presence, when she'd normally look up and demand love and affection. Thursday morning, Mater took her to the vet.
Moustafolees' kidneys were failing. Mater was given the choice of a very expensive surgery that only had a 50% chance of helping her, bringing her home and letting her die slowly on her own, or putting her to sleep.
So Thursday morning, Moustafolees left us. It sounds cruel, but we put her body out with the trash. We didn't do it because we didn't care. We loved her dearly. But our trash gets burned, and we thought it'd be a nice thing to turn her body into energy, so she could always be with us.
Blessed be, Moustafolees. We'll miss you so much. I hope your Summerlands are everything you could ever want.
And we all say
Oh, well, I never! Was there ever
A cat so clever as
Magical Mrs. Moustafolees!
Wander safely,
Arc.
No comments:
Post a Comment