he was a good boy
So this afternoon, we lost the old man of the house.
Montana came into our lives, in all honesty, because I felt a little guilty about buying a guitar amp. I’d just wrapped up the purchase and put it in the car, and found my family in the pet store nearby the music shop, where they’d found a bunch of shelter cats named after strippers states, and young Mary, all of five or six, had fallen in love with a tiny little ball of gray fluff. Having just dropped a few hundred bucks on myself, I felt I couldn’t turn her down.
I made the right call.
He was cute, fuzzy, and I’m surprised he ever learned to walk, because Mary just carried the tiny ball of fluff everywhere for his first couple of months with us. He eventually became a *giant* lump of fluff (more than three feet nose to tail, more than 20 pounds in his prime), owing to his Maine Coon genetics, but was always a happy, laid back lap cat who got along with everyone, including the elder cats and dog who came before him, and the younger who came after. He simply took everything in stride.
He was really Mary’s cat, but he really loved everyone, in his own particular flavor of throw-rug, laconic acceptance.
We loved him, and we always will. The place isn’t going to be the same without him. I’m really sorry that Mary and I were stuck in our respective places away from home and never got to say a final goodbye. All the same, as I prepare for my final week stuck in this beige sort of limbo, I raise a glass to the big fluffy old man, and wish him godspeed.
He was a very good boy.
