Dear Moppet:

Moppet McNielsen

At first, I thought you were a rather troublesome inheritance. Obviously, one of your forebears had a romantic entanglement with a duck (or possibly a mallard or a loon) — that’s the only way to explain the fact that you quacked instead of meowed, and squawked instead of purring when you were happy. To be frank, you smelled bad most of the time. And also, you freaked us out: even when the wind was roaring down from the Frasier Valley and the temperature went into the single digits, you would come into the warm safety of the house only if we dragged you, kicking and screaming (or quacking). And we did, more than once. Twice we thought we’d lost you to frostbite, and once to coyotes, but you always proved us wrong.

Be still, sweet heart, and cease

But we learned to love each other, didn’t we? Cathy and I learned to speak duck in order to communicate with you, though we never could overcome our terrible American accents. And you learned to seek out our laps for warmth and companionship, in sun and frosty dark alike. We learned to endure a little rain and wind (and sometimes, but not often enough, snow) so we could spend a little time with you each week through every season of the year. And you learned to endure brief periods inside. If you smelled like poop, well… so do cigars. What better way to spend a Friday in December than sitting by the fire, with a cat in your lap and a stogie stinking up the winter nights? There was nothing better.

We loved you. I hope you will forgive us for capturing you against your will, drugging you, and stopping your heart.

I think you had a beautiful heart.  You were a wild animal in many ways, flirting with ferality, dreadfully terrified of enclosed spaces and loud noises.  Your hair exemplified wilderness: grown out and tangled, a rejection of the idea of domesticity and control. You were much more at home with raccoons, hungry hawks, freezing temperatures, and driving rain than any mere house cat.  You didn’t bury your shit because you didn’t have to — you were the queen kitty of 2709 Lynn St.  You could drive away even Abigail Thomas when you felt like it, even though she weighed three times as much as you did.

You were an awesome cat.  I will never forget our many, lengthy conversations by the fire.  I wish there had been time for more.

I will remember you like this.

Sleep tight, sweetie.