Mi Gato Viejo

“Old Man” Malcolm died yesterday. He was 17.5 years old. Pretty good for a cat. Massive stroke. Maybe a brain mass. Vet wasn’t sure. It was bad whatever it was. Best thing for him was to put him to sleep.
My wife and I got him as a kitten six months after we were married. He had always been with us, through eights moves, including one to Germany and back. Malcolm was a great cat. Lay down on the floor and he would curl right up next to you and start purring before you touched him. A loud purr. A comforting purr.
We called him the “old man” because, like any cat, he could get an attitude, especially in his old age. Never did accept the dog in the house. And if you didn’t pet him in the right way, he would let you know. Not with a bite, usually, but always with a warning growl. A growl that you could not help but smile at.
The “old man” had always been there. He was there on the arm of the recliner when I recuperated from surgery. He was there to break in the baby crib for each of my four children before we brought them home from the hospital. He assumed I had put the crib up just for him. He was one of the first things each child learned to crawl toward. Maybe the fourth was too much.
Malcolm always had to lick the bottom of your ice cream bowl. He loved anything chicken or turkey. Thanksgiving won’t be the same without him.
I will miss my old cat.

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