The night Momo died, Josh composed a haiku: Death is hard for kids. Hard for adults sometimes, too. We'll miss you Momo. In a way, I think it was a blessing that Momo died when he did, if he had to die. We left on a trip the very next morning, which gave us other things to think about, other things to do. It gave us time to adjust to the idea that Momo wouldn't be around anymore before we had to live normal life without him. Since we've come home, I haven't heard the kids mention him. I miss him at night when there's no one to chase marbles. The other cats aren't particularly interested; they have other toys they prefer. I don't know if the other cats miss Momo or even realize he's gone. They do, however, seem more clingy since our return. I imagine it's because we were gone for six days that they follow me around meowing, climbing on my lap, Ishmael begging to let me bury his face in my hair. Yesterday each of the three cats took a turn...
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Grief
In 2009, when April gave us the kitten, he was named Moroni, but we shortened the name to Momo. When I woke up this morning, I didn't think I'd be attending a funeral tonight. 2014. Watchful and wary, yet playful, Momo was a beloved part of our family. This afternoon, I had just returned home from taking the house key to the cat sitter when one of the kids made a comment about Momo choosing a strange place to take a nap. When I went to investigate, our beautiful orange cat was lying on the floor in the hallway, in front of the linen closet door, just a few feet from my bedroom door. It looked like he was asleep, but when I reached out to stroke his silky fur, there was no response at all. When I looked at him closer, I realized that his eyes were open a little, but unfocused and kind of glazed, and his tongue was sticking out the side of his mouth. Suspecting the worst, I picked him up. It was like picking up a boneless mass. There was still no response, no sign of br...