Momo is playing at the feet of the Lord now.
When she was a baby I found her in the yard, alone in a planter pot. She was not much bigger than a little mouse. On her first visit the vet offered to put her to sleep. He said she tested positive for some acronym. "NO!" I said without thinking.
I nursed her to health and she bounced around so much we named her Momo Bongo. Part Russian Blue, with Tux markings, as an adult she was the most regal of cats. She lived almost 9 years, one year for each of her 9 lives.
In her last months she moved back and forth between the kitchen and the family room. She watched Nordic Noir with us in the evenings. She slept on the kitchen counter no matter many how many times I discouraged her.
I gave up and let her have her way. We put a soft blanket on one of the counters and that's where she slept until the day she couldn't climb up there anymore. She had picked the most socially important part of the house and made it hers. Who would deny her? Not me.
I miss her.
Some days later:
Found a picture in my camera phone tonight of Momo sleeping her final hours. The lighting is dusk and all you can make out midst the shadows is one little snowshoe paw. An hour before she passed over she raised her head and gazed at me and I gazed back, willing her to let go.
I still miss her.
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