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A Fluffy Farewell

Today my family said goodbye to our huge and fluffy country cat, Fluffy. He was 16.

Actually, he was Dad’s cat, selected from a litter of feral farm kittens somewhere up North not long after I had moved back to Bismarck.

My fondest memories have to be from the late 90s when Dad would occasionally drive into town, come in through the side door of the agency, walk up the stairs while carrying his surprisingly-well-behaved Fluffy in his arms, and look for me. Just to say hi.

Because that was the sort of thing that Dad did.

Dad and Fluffy made quite the pair. And Fluffy managed to live on for over eleven more years after Dad passed away. Mom took over where Dad left off.

But Fluffy had grown old. Limping. Confused. Mom called me during the day to tell me it was time. I agreed, but it still hurt.

I like to think that somewhere high up above, Dad heard a quiet mew that he hadn’t heard in a long, long time. Smiling, he turned around and looked down to see Fluffy staring back up at him. Dad bent down, scooped Fluffy up into his arms, and started walking around to show Fluffy off to his friends.

Because that’s the sort of thing that Dad does.

Rest in peace, Fluffy. And no bitey.