Remembering Pig

It’s been a week since we’ve lost Pig. There’s something already timeless about this hurt, about his memory. I still think I see him in his old haunts: on the sofa pillow, under the dining room table, by the water dish. The tears have stopped flowing so much, but I’m still caught off guard everyday at how much I miss the little guy.

He was a weirdo: a small, pointy cat, the runt of the litter, almost euthanized early in life due to the horrible conditions he endured before being rescued and brought to the Denver Dumb Friends League. I guess he was always a bit sickly. But he had a big, playful heart and not a mean bone in his little body. He was a lover, for sure, and a stubborn one at that. Once he planted himself on you, it took bulldozer-like strength to move him, and he was patient enough to wait until you were in the right position to come back again.

He was a talker. I often tried to imagine what he would say if he possessed the power of speech. I would think to myself that it would be amusing, quickly realizing that it would soon get pretty annoying hearing him babble on about nothing but shoelaces and treats and imaginary bugs. The first peep we heard from him was at the shelter. We were meeting him for the first time in one of those little rooms, and a young girl happened to pass by and tap on the glass door, wanting to say hi to the adorable little kitten on the other side. Pig wasn’t having it and proceeded to promptly hiss at her through the glass. That startled the girl, but it endeared us to Pig even more. The deal was sealed. He was ours, but more than anything, we were his.

And this will never change. We miss you, Piggy.

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