I feel like every time I write a post here, it’s because I have bad news. That’s what it is this time, as well.
On the 8th of April, I lost a member of my family. My little black cat died. His name was Mollimer Horatio, because his parents were Molly and Mortimer and the name “Horatio” means “worthy of love”, so it’s basically the best name ever. Mollimer was called “Mo” for short.
A little background: Molly is my mum’s cat, Mortimer was a stray until he adopted me in his old age. One night Molly removed a window screen and unlatched a window before jumping down onto the lid of the wheelie bin and running away. Since cats don’t have thumbs, she must have been quite determined to get out, not to mention it is a double-storey house. Molly was young and a very small cat and it was late at night, so we set about trying to find her immediately. As it turned out, she had gone left when we went right; we did find her that night, but several weeks later it appeared that she had swallowed a small pumpkin whole…
You may know my dad worked away on oil rigs for several years and, like most people in that job, didn’t like being away and missing important events. One completely normal afternoon, Dad was lamenting that he misses everything special and would probably be away when Molly had her kittens. This prompted me to go check on Molly. I found her in her “nest”, cleaning one kitten and pushing out another! Molly had four kittens, the last one born was Mo.
From the second he was born Mo had to be heard! He had the loudest kitten squark which grew into the loudest tomcat meow. Mo enjoyed art, music and science. His hobbies included singing, walking all over my freshly painted canvasses and hiding in tall grass pretending to be a panther. Mo didn’t like anyone at all ever (except me). Every cat stereotype was right there in my Mo. There are very few good pictures of Mo because whenever he saw a camera he would shout, “NO CAMERAS!” and either hiss, hide or show us his bum end.
Mo was only six years old. He had a medical condition which required surgery when he was quite young, but it had given him no trouble since, until it did.
The two things that bother me most are that Mo died at my parent’s house in Maryborough, and I am in Brisbane, and that Margret Thatcher died the same day. I don’t even know why that second thing bothers me and all things aside I doubt she did it on purpose.
My Mo. My baby. Song of my heart! I miss you.
There’s so much more I want to tell you all. There’s so much more you need to know about how wonderful he was, is and always will be. I can’t write any more; there’s not enough tissues in the world.
Please go hug your furbaby or other loved one.
Signed with hope,