His first name is lost to time. It was a French name I recall. Michoux? Michaud? Something like that. But when we adopted him, we renamed him, choosing Baby over runner-up Sasquatch. And, over the course of his 15+ years, he was a little of both: frisky, grumpy, playful, troublesome but, always, oh-so-adorable. I suspect he even had a little dog in his DNA, demonstrating a most un-catlike disregard for personal hygiene that marked his colorful personality (and, unfortunately for him, lead to the necessity for the funny lion cut pictured above), as well as a propensity for extended sneezing fits.
Like most of our animal companions, he went through an early butterball phase, the result of days spent eating, lounging about, and, generally, lying in wait to pounce on the sockless unwary. In later years, that fluffy lion cut concealed an emaciated frame ravaged by disease. And yet, despite the early prognosis, Baby proved himself a fighter. Time and again, he looked to be in his final days and, time and again, he bounced back, resuming his pesky, obstinate, adorably cranky ways.
But these last few days proved too much for him and, last night, Baby finally passed away, peacefully, according to my sis, purring and cuddling to the end.
He was a little guy with a very big personality. And he will be missed.
I dedicate today’s blog to mom and my cousin, Marolyn, Daisy, and, especially, my sis who took such great care of Baby, especially in his final few months.