A day after the two-year anniversary of the death of our tortie Molly, sad news arrives from home. "Smokey", my grandmother's cat, is gone. He'd not been his usual bratty self these past few weeks and despite a recent pep-up in behavior, he was diagnosed with a stomach tumour and immediately had to be put down today (I've always hated that expression, but what else do you say?).Smokey was named by my cousin Ashton for his grey-black coat, and he was very much a boy cat in his early years, disappearing for days and re-appearing on my grandmother's doorstep with a chomp out of his ear after god-knows-what-happened. As he grew older, he became less of a wanderer, and was quite the manipulative show-off. I'll miss his head-butts as he cried out for milk, his frantic digging for his toys (his favorite was a stuffed bumble-bee) whenever guests were around (my grandmother says he rarely played with them when it was just the two of them), and his adorable non-meow, which sounded like a melodic croak.
I'm sure my grandmother is very lonely tonight, having had a wonderful companion for 13 years. I'll miss Smokey, too, and visits home won't be the same--it's such a sad thing that our pets don't last as long as we do, and even sadder when they don't get to live out all of those years to the end...
