My baby boy, Larry, died two days ago. Larry was my cat. He was my companion for twenty years and the last black cat in my life for more than twenty-five. I miss him dearly.
His chair sits next to mine and when I write, I’d take a few minutes every hour and slip my hand up under his blanket and stroke him. I sit here today stroking the arm of his chair. I keep expecting him to be there, but when I look, I remember.
He had a heart murmur, but has been good for two years or more. The other morning though, I’m certain he had a massive heart attack. We found him on the floor and I got to cradle my sweet boy in my arms, I got to kiss his nose, his head. I got to tell him how much he was loved.
He chose me. He looked up from the basket when he was a tiny kitten and our eyes met. The day the kittens were let out to run around, he climbed up and leaned against my ankle until I picked him up. He curled up on my lap, and there he stayed.
He loved me as much as I loved him. He would press his nose into the side of mine, and very gently, would nibble the corner of my mouth and kiss me. We would spend hours together, cuddling, kissing, stroking.
He was my mighty panther that kept the nasties at bay and I miss him very much.