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In Memory of Thunder

     As an only child, I’ve always considered my cats, Thunder and Lightning, to be my “furry little brothers”  We’ve grown up together for the last 17 years, and I almost don’t remember what life was like before they came.  Now, four months after Thunder’s death, I am trying hard not to forget the details of life with him.

     I loved holding his solid furry body, not fat, but plenty of muscle distributed across a powerful frame.  I remember the weight of his sudden presence on the bed, and his firm footsteps as he strode confidently across my stomach in search of the perfect catnap spot.  To some, he may have seemed aloof or inconsiderate in pounding across me that way, but I admired his self-assurance and independence.

     Almost all cats are smart, but I’ve often said that Thunder’s almost uncanny intelligence and perception nearly made me believe in reincarnation.  He understood doorknobs, light-switches, mirrors, and a phenomenal degree of language!  And such an example of hunting prowess!  A real cat’s cat, he had been known to catch not only mice and rats, but moles half-way out of their burrows, and even hummingbirds!

     As he aged, Thunder became more tolerant, and seemed to be more content and appreciative of his family.  He carried an air of dignified superiority, though not overbearing, and, laying across the back of the recliner, one dark orange paw crossed nonchalantly over the other, he exuded an air of quiet nobility.  In his last few years, and especially his last few days, I spoke to Thunder as an equal, and we seemed not merely to communicate, but to commune with one another.
Near then end, while he rested between bouts of pain from the cancer, I spoke with him about ending it.  His expression seemed to say to me, “I know.  I understand that this will be hard for you.  I’ll miss you too, but I’m ready to go, and I know you’re doing this for me, not to me.”  My mother told me that he died the way he had lived, with dignity and grace.  I chose not to be present for his death.  I know Thunder understood.

Description
In Memory of Thunder

     As an only child, I’ve always considered my cats, Thunder and Lightning, to be my “furry little brothers”  We’ve grown up together for the last 17 years, and I almost don’t remember what life was like before they came.  Now, four months after Thunder’s death, I am trying hard not to forget the details of life with him.

     I loved holding his solid furry body, not fat, but plenty of muscle distributed across a powerful frame.  I remember the weight of his sudden presence on the bed, and his firm footsteps as he strode confidently across my stomach in search of the perfect catnap spot.  To some, he may have seemed aloof or inconsiderate in pounding across me that way, but I admired his self-assurance and independence.

     Almost all cats are smart, but I’ve often said that Thunder’s almost uncanny intelligence and perception nearly made me believe in reincarnation.  He understood doorknobs, light-switches, mirrors, and a phenomenal degree of language!  And such an example of hunting prowess!  A real cat’s cat, he had been known to catch not only mice and rats, but moles half-way out of their burrows, and even hummingbirds!

     As he aged, Thunder became more tolerant, and seemed to be more content and appreciative of his family.  He carried an air of dignified superiority, though not overbearing, and, laying across the back of the recliner, one dark orange paw crossed nonchalantly over the other, he exuded an air of quiet nobility.  In his last few years, and especially his last few days, I spoke to Thunder as an equal, and we seemed not merely to communicate, but to commune with one another.
Near then end, while he rested between bouts of pain from the cancer, I spoke with him about ending it.  His expression seemed to say to me, “I know.  I understand that this will be hard for you.  I’ll miss you too, but I’m ready to go, and I know you’re doing this for me, not to me.”  My mother told me that he died the way he had lived, with dignity and grace.  I chose not to be present for his death.  I know Thunder understood.