3-10-08

Today my kitty Tober died. He was 19 years old.

Tober adopted our family in October (hence his name) 1989, when he first came up to my mom and me on our porch, helped himself to a little of our popcorn, and never left.

Tober was a great cat. He loved string, getting high as a kite off catnip, playing soccer with plastic eggshells, drooling and sinking his claws into whatever lap held him, going on tears with Coco through the Christmas wrapping paper, laying on newspapers, coming to see if you were okay when you cried. He also sported a rather curious foot fetish. Tober was also the orneriest and most aggravating cat ever, meowing impatiently for his meals, merciless assassinating our carpet and furniture, always being on the wrong side of the door (our poor door’s wood paneling will never recover from all the scratchings), and if you picked him up—well, you didn’t need those limbs anyway.

Of course, I’m very sad he’s gone, but Tober’s life was a GREAT one. He lived a very long, full, happy life. The best life any kitty could ask for. We were lucky to have him.

I won’t remember Tober as the frail old man he was in his final days, but how he was in this drawing—a younger cat, laying innocently on the floor, only to roll over suddenly and attack the feet of anyone unwary enough to walk close by him. You’d yell at him, annoyed, but he’d just look back at you with an expression saying “HEE HEE LOOK HOW CUTE I AM. COME BACK HERE AND LET ME PLAY WITH YOUR FEETSIES SOME MOAR! >:33 ”

Crazy cat. I love you.