Slinky, my wild man, went missing on Monday, August 14th. He went out for his evening walk and never came home. That’s not his style, something was not right w/ the world. I was away, so Jef combed the neighborhood. Driving slowly, taking different roads to work, taking Lucy for walks at night, peering between houses. He finally found him a few days ago in a neighbor’s yard. He’d passed away, but Jef said he looked like he’d just curled up and fallen asleep. Candy says cats don’t curl up like that if they are in pain. There’s some solace in that, but doesn’t stop me from crying every time I think about it. Every time I think about him being by himself, or me missing something that might have been wrong with him.

Slinky was not a perfect cat. He was sweet, but needy. He clawed the furniture when he was little and he meowed incessantly. He mellowed greatly in his later years, but even at 4 and 5 years old, he’d tear through the house like he was on fire, climbing up plant stands, breaking dishes. Looking for something, or nothing, to get into. I decided he needed a friend, and another cat would never be enough. He needed a dog. Enter Lucy.

Slinky was from a shelter in D.C.. I remember they said they’d received a call from a woman who said “Please come get my cat. If you don’t, my husband might kill him.” It’s sad, but it makes me laugh a little too. That was definitely Slinky. She tried to get him back a few days later, but the shelter said it was best if he stayed with them for awhile. I know we gave him a better home, because he gave us undying affection. He slept at my feet every night, and was the only cat I’ve ever had that let me cuddle him in my arms and rub his belly. He’d just lay there and purr.

He taught me patience. And not to get too attached to upholstery. It’s replaceable. Love is not. I hope he’s tearin’ it up wherever he is.