Mom called Friday with bad news about my gorgeous cat, Tut. We got him when I was 8. I was supposed to just get Sheba, my crazy Siamese (who died when I was 12 after she ate all the strings from a roast).
When we went to get Sheba as a tiny kitten, we could hear Tut purring from across the room. Mom instantly knew we had to take him home. He was a mighty hunter from the beginning. Once, he jumped to catch a fly and landed in the toilet. He was also adventurous. We would come into the kitchen in the morning, and his tiny kitten self was way up on top of the refrigerator. We couldn't quite figure out how he got up there. During a sleepover when I was 13, my friends and I were amused to discover he loved Doritos: he was dragging them out of a bowl on my dresser. And he once caught a bat! I called him my puma, because he was so grand. He would stretch out on my torso. His head would be nestled into my neck. His front legs would be on my chest, his back legs on my hips, and his tail would reach down to my knees. My puma.
He had a stroke, and Mom had to have him put to sleep. She told me earlier this month that his health had declined. It was hard on her to have to do it, but I appreciate it. Poor Mom. She's had to make that decision so many times in my life. It's sad to think I'll never cuddle with him again. It was one of my favorite things about visiting home. I dreamt that I was there when he died, that the whole family, and all the family friends who loved him were there. I was happy to be there for him at the end and woke up crying.