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Bobby
Bobby joined our family in 1993. He was found with his
mother and siblings in a churchyard in Kansas City,
Missouri, and taken to a no-kill shelter. My daughter,
Adair, chose him from the litter because he was the most
playful -- something we would later come to regret in a
household with three aging cats who hadn't asked for a
rambunctious little boy to join the family.
Bobby was an adorable kitten who loved to climb up people
and then, exhausted, sleep on their shoulders. He enjoyed
looking out windows and bird-watching.
Bobby was so communicative and used his little paws and eyes
and ears to "talk." He was smart, too, and figured out door
knobs, frustrated that he couldn't turn them and open doors.
And even in old age with a failing heart, he couldn't turn
down a good game of chase-the-string.
In his later years, he bonded closely with my husband, who
found that joining a family with four cats and a dog was
more than he'd bargained for. He'd tease me and say,
"Bobby's my cat now: when you're gone, we watch sports and
do guy stuff." The night after Bobby passed away, I saw my
husband watching TV in bed, cradling in his arm -- what was
it? -- yes, a roll of paper towels. When I looked more
closely, I saw that he'd drawn a cat face there. He was
missing Bobby as much as anybody.
A couple of days ago, three weeks after Bobby's passing, a
friend came to visit. She'd never liked cats and had pretty
much avoided them. Bobby changed her mind about a whole
species. When she came in, she said, "You'll think I'm
crazy, but I swear I saw Bobby in your hallway." I assured
her that she seemed fully sane to me, and that Bobby had a
big enough soul, he could show up anywhere.
Thanks to Dr. Plotnick and Manhattan Cat Specialists for
caring for Bobby in his final illness and giving us more
time with him. I hold you all in my heart.
-- Victoria Moran
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