Our cat Maggie passed away yesterday. She was a good cat. We adopted her in 2012, somewhat unintentionally. We knew we wanted a cat, and there was a room in the shelter for “Salty and Pepper”, which is a terrible set of names for two black and white cats. The one we would name Jake came over like a dog would, introducing himself with a head butt and looking for scritches, but Salty (or Pepper, we never were quite sure) was nowhere to be found. Searching around the room revealed Maggie hiding away in a little cat tent, reluctant to come out, relying on her brother to do the work of finding new pet parents, a pattern she would continue once we brought her home, making Jake do the work of asking for treats and dinner.
A funny thing about furry friends is you spend a lot of time with them, as much as immediate family, and they’re tied up in memories of everything. In our first house Maggie would find all the odd spots a cat could find to hide in a turn of the twentieth century home. Lorelei was born and once Maggie stopped being afraid of her stumbling and crying, she became her everyday companion and occasional play table.
Throughout Covid she was the screen time cat, joining me for meetings while Jake napped on the couch.
And would still hang out for play time.
I’ll end with this photo, a happenstance of lighting that revealed her inner kitty, the one that would knock over scratching posts at 2 a.m., or attack the doorknob on our bedroom door while we slept just to run away when I opened it.