Herman, remembered

I had to have Herman put down last week.

He came to us in 1998, a half-starved stray who had taken up lodging at the feed store, with his brilliant green eyes and stubby tail and bones jutting out where bones shouldn't be.  I brought him home and from the minute he took up residence, he radiated gratitude.

I'm not anthropomorphising this.  He was visibly, palpably content to be with us, and he was always around, always in the middle of everything..

Leaping up the stairs first thing in the morning, when Thing Two's feet hit the deck, for a spot of play and cuddles.  Greeting us at the door when we came home each day.  Underfoot in the kitchen.  Tucked in front of the fire.  Sitting patiently by my chair at dinner every evening, waiting until I finished and pushed back so he could jump in my lap.  Perched on the back of the recliner.  On my bed every night, always keeping to the highest spot - my hip, or butt, or chest, or, if it was a really cold night, up around my neck.

He was endlessly playful.  Kittenish.  A decent mouser when he could be bothered.  Very talkative; a cat you could dialogue with.

He had periodic respiratory infections that would slow him down a bit, but he always bounced back.  Until this time.  Something else was going on, and despite treatment, he declined very quickly.  He stopped eating.  He got scrawny again.  And weak.  It was his time.  I stayed with him while the vet gave him the shot.


Days later, I still feel like I've been punched in the gut.  I play the whole sequence of events out in my head in the middle of the night.

He was our buddy, and his absence leaves a pretty big hole in this household.