Our cat Eloise died one week ago today. She was the reigning queen in our home and we all followed her rules (ask Mr. P about what Eloise would do to him if he got out of line). She even raised our male cat Hobbes. Twelve years ago, Hobbes came to our home as an 8 week-old, pepperoni-pizza-eating, beer-drinking kitten rescued from an old abandoned doghouse behind a bar in the shadow of a GM plant in Detroit. Eloise took him under her paw and taught him how to behave, how to groom himself and how to enjoy catfood. She also instilled the strict rule that eating only happened when she was hungry. As a result, in all his 12 years on earth Hobbes has never felt it necessary to request a meal. Eloise had always taken care of that by entering the kitchen and meowing loudly until the bowls on the floor were filled. Ever since last Tuesday, I've been worried about how Hobbes would adjust.
But all is well. Just now, as I was preparing the children's lunch, Hobbes came into the kitchen. He did a little happy dance (alot like our friend Misspent) in front of the cabinet where the catfood is stored. I realized that he was telling me he was hungry and asking for food. I opened the can and Hobbes partook of our plenty. He is now laying in my arms and purring madly as I type. He's content. I'm content. Things are going to be OK.
At least until Santa Claws delivers another foundling from the alleys of Detroit.