Fifteen years ago this July, I received one of the best gifts I had ever received in my life: two seven-month old kittens. They were sisters from the same litter. Midori was shy, the runt of the litter, white with a black tail and a weird black patch on her head that made her look as though someone had spilled paint on her. Sarabi was brave huntress and impossibly beautiful. She was a creamy brown color with a white tummy and a black nose. Think about it for a minute – when have you ever seen a brown cat?
They were two of the best cats I have ever known. They were sweet and cuddly. They both followed me from room to room, and took turns sitting on my lap, one gently nudging the other when it was time to switch places. Even if they were sound asleep, I only had to click my tongue, and they’d both come running.
But circumstances change, and my life in chaos, I found myself in a situation where I could not have cats. Heartbroken and sad, I gave them up for adoption after spending seven years with them, and proceeded to sobbingly choke down a pound of chocolates covered in salty tears.
Last night I dreamed I was reclining on my couch at midnight with the light of the full moon streaming in the window when Midori walked in and hopped into my lap. She looked at me and meowed a few times in her whiny way and I immediately understood: Sarabi has died. I held Midori close, petted her, and comforted her through the loss of her sister, and then she left, and I woke up feeling sad for the loss of my pet all over again.
Hunt well, Sarabi. You are missed.