Fifty Second

This is the eulogy that my cat wrote for me (at least the one i'm sure he would write if he could):

She was the best.  

She was warm and was the only person who had a lap big enough to contain all of my 18 glorious pounds. 

She let me sit beneath her bent legs under the covers.  This was such a great place, until she farted.  Ugh.  

But still I stayed, warm and dark and covered.

She didn’t feed me enough though.  I would ask very plainly, sitting, and then even lying down, next to my sparkling empty dish.  I don’t think she was stupid, but I really can’t understand why she couldn’t comprehend my request.  Any other whim I had was quickly satisfied.  

If I looked cute and big-eyed next to the dining room table, most often I would get a bite of something wonderful.  I never understood what happened next, when she would say to the room, “I don’t know WHY he begs.” There would be laughter.  She was happy. I liked that.

I followed her around the house so that I could sit on her.  I can hear a lap being made two rooms away from a dead sleep. 

I liked that she rarely passed by my sleeping spot without a kind comment and a stroke for me.  Who doesn’t like hearing about how handsome I am several times a day?

She rarely brought unsavory people to our house, and when she did, I would growl and smack them on the nose until they stopped trying to sniff my behind.

Is it dinner time now?