Dad’s parents had seven children and two cats - a scruffy orange tabby brother and a beautiful calico sister.
Dad’s father and his friends sat around drinking one day, discussing how great the female was - always catching mice - and how lazy the male cat was. During the conversation, the male cat slipped outside.
He returned several times, each time with a fresh dead mouse. He lined them up in a row in front of the group.
Two orange tabby brothers followed us home in December. They lived with us for five weeks, snuggling, wrestling, running around like madmen and punching each other in the face, until their owners saw our “found” signs (which had been posted in front of their house for weeks).
Chupa misses them a ton. They shredded furniture, ate Kolinsky brushes and laptop screens, farted intense farts on our laps, pawed wet paintings and shoved my brush around whenever I painted, but they were cute and soft fuzzballs.
Several years ago, Mom and I visited Japan during cherry blossom season. While there, Mom found out that her mom had cancer and was awaiting surgery in the hospital.
That night, Mom lay on the bed in our room at the ryokan. “Emmie, my mom is sick . . . what if I lose her?” she asked.
I tried to think of something kind and comforting to say.“Well, she is 86,” I said.