Two months ago, we lost our marmalade cat, Max. He'd been with us since October 13, 2001 when he showed up at my sister's house, a hungry, flea-ridden, feral stray. According to the vet at the time, he was three to four months old.
I'll never forget that first night, after we took him home, he crawled into my lap while I was eating popcorn and took a piece from me. I think it was the last time he ever ate anything so banal. He quickly became a very picky eater. What can I say? He was a cat, and he held us both in one pad of his paw.
Most of our photos from his early years are prints, but here are a few that are presently in my computer. This was our old house; he liked looking out at the street from this chair, though here he's actually sleeping. He was a long kitty and hadn't yet grown into his length.
Some of these are from my phone. I never got good shots of my kitchen window in the afternoon sun but Max didn't care what time of day he was being cute; he had to check into whatever plant I brought home.
Even a fake Christmas tree.
This is one of my favorite shots. Who me? On what counter?
Isn't a wooden chopping block exactly the place a big old cat ought be?
Anyplace was fine for Max.
Especially in a patch of sun.
Or a pile of pillows.
Or a big ol' pile of pillows.
"Since I'm here, I might as well get comfy."
I will miss you, Max.