Shmoo was the runt of a litter, the second-eyelid a defect the mother always passed to the runt. His name was given to him on a whim, a word my siblings and I used to tease one another. Shmoo and his littermates were free, and my brother Pat felt that moving into a new home needed a housewarming present, and brought this tiny little fuzzball home.
He was always quiet, always happy to sit on someone's lap, and when he wanted attention, he would not hesitate to sit on the newspaper you were reading, or share the milk in your cereal bowl. Shmoo had a penchant for pancakes and doughnuts, and would sit on his hind feet and beg for chicken.
Toward the end of his long life, he lost one of his canines, and we noticed his judgement was slipping, for he tended to miss jumps from one sofa arm to the other. We also noticed he was getting neurotic, fidgeting constantly, and running quickly through the house.
In the end, unlike most cats, he did not run away from the house to pass, he rarely left the house, and would not know where to go. He consorted to passing on by lying in a box that was too small for him, resting in the sunshine near the front door. |
