Yoda
One of my senior citizen cats passed away yesterday. He was a pretty cat, did not act his age, really. In two days, he would have been sixteen. I have no idea what that is in cat years, but I know it is old. Yoda was, how do I put this? A brat. He always got on counters and refused to get off the table when Andrea told him to. He ate like he had been starved all week and stole the other cat’s treats, and you’d better watch your popcorn because he would use one nail to grab a piece and run. He would give judgmental stares, he frowned really well, and yes, he pouted well, too. His life was a series of “get down, Yoda!” “Leave it alone, Yoda.” “Get out of there, Yoda.” “For crying out loud, you dumb cat! What part of no don’t you understand?” That was Yoda. But he was a lovebug. He liked daddy cuddles, hovered under my desk to clean up lost fragments of yummies, hated having his nails clipped, and he was Andrea’s Foofie. All that to say, as I stood ugly crying in the shower today, I...