Calm, Cool and Committed

Three Moms and a Dude

Albert (affectionately called Meowbert, Albie or Al)

I want to tell you about my cat.

But I don’t want to tell you about how loved Baked Doritos.  And I don’t want to tell you about how he always came when called or how he would wake us up by jumping on us or how he developed this amazingly aggravating morning meow that sounded like “Hello.”  He did all that, and I’ll miss all that – even the claw marks down my abdomen at 5 in the morning – but that’s what I want you to know about him.

I will miss Albert because he’s the only person who truly knows how I’ve been, grown and changed over the last thirteen years.  With Albert’s passing, I lose a big chunk of who I am.

Albert sat on my shoulders at 2AM when I wrote a ten page paper about books I’d never read.  He watched me verbally belittle a roommate that had once been a good friend.  He saw me cry when I said goodbye to college and youth.

He watched me get my first real job, where I was excited about earning $10 an hour working with underage drinkers.  Then he watched me say good riddance when I busted out from a company I had grown to hate.  When I finally got into teaching, lots of his orange hairs clamped onto the papers and papers and papers I graded.

He witnessed a major breakup, and didn’t say “You should have known better,” though he probably wanted to.  He saw me fall in love (and was really quite bitter about it until after the wedding.)  He helped me adjust to being a married woman by having a hard time adjusting to being in a new house.  (Don’t worry, we bought Chun Lee then and that fixed that.)

He sat on my lap when I typed.  He laid on my arm when I read.  He slept really close when I was cold in winter.

He put up with getting pushed off the bed (it was 5am!) locked out of the litter room (whoops!), yelled at for fighting (They don’t have claws!), and losing his favorite baby status to a human baby.

He sat with me when my grandmother died… He sat with me a lot for that.    I kinda wish his furry white tummy and shrewd amber eyes could sit me through this, too.

He knew me as a procrastinator, a troublemaker, a crier, a yeller, a reader, a napper, an eater, and a mom.  He saw me happy and sad and single and married and proud and disappointed.  And now that he’s gone, not only am I missing the cat that could somehow jump on top of the refrigerator, I’m missing the person who knew ME – the good and bad me – for the past 13 years and only thought less of me when I didn’t turn the faucet on for him to drink.

I love you, Albert.  Thanks for loving me.