Today is Thomas's third birthday, making him irrevocably, and in even the eyes of the most generous vet, a cat. He does not believe this. He thinks he's still the world's most super-sized kitten, as evidenced by the way he draped across my shoulder and attacked my braid this morning. He is goofy, insouciant, and utterly shameless, willing to flop and trill in the most undignified manner if it means he gets a little extra attention.
He is perfect.
When I first brought him home, he was all legs and tail and mischief, and could easily fit in my backpack. Now he is legs and tail and mischief and mass, heavy enough that picking him up is something to be considered carefully before it is done. The small orange stripes on his muzzle give him a permanent Cheshire grin, a smile with a cat attached. I can't imagine life without him.
So happy birthday to my puffy boy, to the first boy-cat I've had since my beloved Seymour died when I was fourteen. You are the best of brats, and I shall love you always, and all I ask is that you live forever. Okay?
Yeah, he developed a tumor on the neck, and managed to last quite a while before going downhill rapidly. But he was a classy, dignified, wonderful cat up until the end. It's just sad because he was my first cat, and the last of our original generation of feline overlords. But he was 17 going on 18... can't ask for much more without seeming greedy. I'll never forget the time you shared your mushrooms with him. :)
July 23 2013, 15:39:13 UTC 3 years ago
Much love.
July 23 2013, 16:56:34 UTC 3 years ago
I'll never forget the time you shared your mushrooms with him. :)
July 23 2013, 17:08:38 UTC 3 years ago