Seventeen years ago, my daughter and I went to the Humane Society and chose a kitten–the black one with the attitude–and brought her home. Darling daughter named her Missy.
Last Thursday, Missy died.
I needed a few days to get some perspective on it, but even now I find my words on the subject of Missy, the cat with issues, have dried up. Except to say this: She was a mouse-hunting, bug-pouncing, dog-battering, throat purring, claw extending, silence destroying, eight pound scrap of black fur and attitude.
And she will be missed.