Mookie passed away last week. We adopted him from the Vernon SPCA eight years ago: they guessed his age at 8. He had been there the longest when we met him, six months, but he didn’t complain about it. Captivity hadn’t made him desperate or angry or skittish. He always handled himself with dignity. Mookie kept his composure throughout, right until the end.
He used to sit on my lap as I wrote in the early morning. He never missed a day, since he started—the day after Monty died two years ago. It’s only Larry and I in the morning now. Larry is not a lap cat: he sits on a chair in the middle of the room and contemplates with equanimity the futility of my endeavours. Or he sits in his crow’s-nest by the window watching the sun come up over the port of Vancouver. Larry searched the house frantically for Mookie after we returned from the vet, cried for him for three days. I mean, he was not the only one crying. He wasn’t even the only one confused. Death remains as baffling to me as it does to Larry. I mean, who’s to say Mookie isn’t in the front closet, the ghost of him anyway? The front closet seems a supposition no less reasonable than heaven. Forever in our hearts, I guess, that’s all you ever can do. Mookie, wherever you are, we love you until the end of time.