My cat died today. My little Jose. Jose Cuervo. Josefina-lina. Jose toes.
She was born on September 22, 1999, so that makes her about seven and a half years old. That’s not enough time. She was a sweet kitty.
It’s weird how much I miss her, having not seen her more than once or twice a week for months. Maybe it’s not so much that I miss her, but that I know she won’t be there the next time I stick my head under the bathroom sink. She won’t ever again knead my head while I’m trying to sleep, or stand behind me silently and creep me out. I won’t ever again get to pet her plushy fur and tickle her cold little toes and kiss her on her little black nose. I won’t ever get to see the pinkness of her ears showing through her solid gray, or feel the crick at the end of her tail. Or pick her up and force her to snuggle with me while she squirms to get away.
No more sniffy tours. No more tuna yowling. No more sweet little kisses between her and Guinness or between her and Tulla.
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