kkscatnip: Gundam 00 (so sorry it's over)
[personal profile] kkscatnip
My mom's cat, Smitty, died this morning. He was put to sleep because he had a broken hip, a punctured lung, and scratches all over him, probably as a result of getting in a fight, climbing a tree, and subsequently falling out of the tree.

Smitty's full name was Itty Bitty Shitty Smitty Kitty, and we got him when my brother, Gene, was elevenish eightish. (Mom has corrected me on ages.) He was walking down our neighborhood street (semi-rural) and some older boys asked him to hold a black-and-white adolescent kitten and then ran off as soon as the cat was in Gene's arms. Gene brought him home, and we, having ~7ish cats (all of which were indoor/outdoor cats with our five acres of land) didn't mind adding one more to the family.

(Or at least that is the way I remember it, but then again, I was 11ish at the time...)

The cat responded to "kitty" so we decided to name it something that rhymed with that, so as to not trouble him too much with learning a name. Thus, Smitty, who was already proving himself to be a master of mischief, and earned his full name at the same time he was named Smitty.

He got along well with one of the other cats, Junior, and the two of them were constantly playing around/tom catting. Smitty was always, always very concerned with protecting the perimeter of our property from other cats; he came home with scratches fairly often throughout his life, but they were always in the front.

It was a long, long time before Smitty came home with wounds on his backside; I think the first time was either early this year or late last year. So, when he was around 15 years old. He stopped tom catting as much, when he started to come home with wounds in the back more often, and in spring went deaf slowly and over summer his mind faded in and out of dementia.

He often had bouts where he'd walk around wailing for a while and then be fine at the end of it, or even in the middle if you came up on him. I don't think he was in pain, it was just that he wasn't quite right in the head anymore. He was happy, though, if still violent: he killed birds, chipmunks, squirrels, and whatnot nearly every day. Still a hunter, even though he wasn't a protector anymore.

So, goodbye, Smitty. I know mom buried you within sight of the bird feeders, and I think you had a really good run. I'll miss you, but now you're in a place where you can hear and are fully functioning mentally. I hope Junior's there with you.

Gonna go cry a bit more, now. Rest well, Smitty.


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April 2014

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