Okay, I have one to share:
He was, a black and gray spotted cat, like a cow, with big green eyes. As a kitten, he was the runt of the litter. He was so small that for 2 months he lived in a rabbit cage so he wouldn’t get lost in our home.
He grew however, tricking us into multiple feelings until he weighed a whopping 25lbs.
Hero was the king, the potentate the poshientate or Poshie for short.
He had his oddities, sleeping in impossible places, somehow balancing his girth, truly death defying with every new place he picked to sleep.
He liked to sun in only particular windows only during particular times of day. I swear he had a wrist watch. “Oh where’s the cat? It’s 12:15 he is the north easterly window in the front of the house.”
He has a booming purr and quite a loud meow.
He was mine.
We slept together at night, we played during the day. I married him to my best friend’s cat (Lydia) in middle school.
Whenever my mother had he horrible, unprovoked violent fits and harmed me or almost harmed me, he’d find me and quietly sit in my lap and let me sob into his fur; all the while purring. That purr shook you down to your bones as if to say “I love you.”
And then one horrible day, I went to the library. When I returned, I called out to him and I heard a strangled meow. He had been having seizures, though he was only 12 years. One of his seizures landed him in a bad place. He broke some important things. We lived in the country, it was a Sunday. So we had to try to make him comfortable while my parents called around, trying to find someone to ease this horribleness.
We could not. He was the most beautiful, wonderful beast. I felt his loss so bitterly. I dreamed of his passing in great tormented detail.
Then one night, I had a dream. I was petting him in a laundry basket, for warm clothing out of the dryer is irresistible. As I am petting him, a great voice says, “You must let him go.” I look up and there is my father but his brown eyes are not his, they are bright blue and flat almost. Another great voice says, “You must let him go.” It was my friend Erica only, not. “You are keeping him here, he needs to go home.” They said. I burst into tears and said, “but I didn’t even get to say ‘goodbye’ he can’t go. I turn back to Poshie in the basket, petting that lovely fur, his purr just as thunderous and alive as I remembered. “But he must go, you must let him rest. Say goodbye now, he’s here.”
So I did, and I woke up feeling much lighter, almost at peace.
I will never forget my little Hero and I hope my son will love cats just as much as I do because they are such living creatures. Truly more compassionate and empathetic than people like to believe.
Gah, I need to go hug my kitties.
Update: Thanks for your kind words!