Today we said goodbye to our Molly. In about 2002 or 2003, Molly arrived on the 2nd story deck of our townhome having just had a litter of kittens. She barged right into the house and never left. She was everyone's favorite of our cats. She was beautiful. With her crystal-clear green eyes and her perfect black markings on her fluffy, white bunny fur coat. She was friendly, social and sometimes gifted strangers with the honor of her sitting on their lap. She was also the smartest cat I've ever known. We affectionately called her "Cat Lassie" because she was a hero whenever possible.
I remember our fat, housecat, Banjo somehow getting out on our 2nd floor deck and then jumping over to the neighbor's roof--a maneuver that he couldn't replicate in reverse in order to get back home. We told Molly, "Molly, go get Banjo!" a few times and she jumped the stucco wall and off she went. About 30 minutes later, here came Molly with Banjo following and we watched in amazement as she showed him how to jump back across to get home.
Then, of course, there was last spring, when she rescued the baby squirrels, which was another amazing thing that I've never seen an animal do.
For the first time since about 1998, our house is cat-less. And, while it will be nice not cleaning a litterbox (or, worse, cleaning up after a cat who forgot how to use the litterbox) and not to be squawked at at dinnertime, it's painfully empty. While I love our dog, Angie, more than I ever imagined that I could, deep down, I'm a cat-person. There's nothing I love more than a warm cat in my lap, the soft, rhythmic purr and the scratchy-tongued kisses. Our house isn't the same without her.
I'm comforted in knowing that she's got a whole gaggle of cats to greet her in Heaven today--some she loved here on Earth and a few that she didn't. I hope she knows how special we thought she was--how she was Kevin's favorite--and how much she'll be missed.
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