The Warm and Bright Son

This weekend, the right of passage my 9-year-old son had been long fearing was upon him. Our tiny tortoise-shell kitty, 18 years old, was finally giving up. The divine Ms. M could no longer walk, and wasn't interested in eating or drinking late Saturday night. She would sit on our laps and very faintly purr a bit before returning to her comfort zone on the lowest shelf of the linen closet. I lined it with her favorite towels. My son told her "I love you. You are the best pet ever. Hopefully you'll pull through this, but probably not." He has always been a fascinating combination of optimist and realist. He is also generally calm and easy-going. (Those last two traits must have skipped at least one generation.)

She was still there the next morning looking up at me, lounging on her little shelf. Only her eyes were still, and she was gone. She looked peaceful and comfortable. We buried her in the backyard with a favorite toy (an aluminum foil ball, for batting), a soft pink baby blanket, and a love note from the boy.

A bit afterward, he offered this suggestion to his Dad and I: "Let's grow a cookie garden this year!" Thinking he was surely joking, we both responded with sarcastic laughs and "yeah, right"s. To which he retorted with a hint of impatience, "if we can't grow a cookie garden, can we at least plant chocolate chips?"