"Puddles"

After almost twenty years, out cat died this morning. For the last three weeks we have been calling him "Puddles". Ususally we screamed his new name right after one of us stepped in the puddle in front of the fridge. This is Puddles in his favorite cold weather position:

He was a good cat (in spite of the puddles). When he joined the house, Elder Son was just learning to walk and he would chase Puddles through the house shouting, "Puppy!", as anything with four legs and a tail was a puppy to him. Several years later, Younger Son joined the household and Puddles adopted him as his kitten. Whenever Younger Son would cry, Puddles would come and find me and howl until I followed him, no matter where I was in the house.

During his middle years he was a great mouser, catching at least 15 mousies before they could nest in the yarn (and one mousie got tossed into Husband's work boots). We played (just put a cat treat at the bottom of a wine bag and laugh for hours, don't forget to drink the wine), tripped over him, threw him in the snow (only when it was piled high enough and only when he was younger), used him as a book rest, and I just can't believe how much I miss him already. For almost 20 years I have complained that I am allergic to him (very true) and that he got more attention that I did (not so true). In truth, Puddles was our middle child and the house seems empty without him.

Good-bye, Puddles, we will miss you.

Love, Mom and Dad