I may be gone, but I still have my eye on you

Mom. Get. A. Grip.

I was born August 17, 2004, two days after Grandma's birthday and two days before yours. I get it, Mom, that makes me "magical". But I was tired, Mom. Remember how I was always hopping up on the sink to drink? In recent weeks I didn't even want to leave the sink. My kidneys were failing. I know you know this, but I want to stress: I needed to go. And I'm telling you, up here in Kitty Heaven I have perfect health (not to mention all the mice and peas I can eat, not necessarily together!) I am back to my fighting weight of 13.7 pounds and I'm a permanent age 7. That was a good age for me, don't you think? That was 2011, when we lived in New Haven and then you had to schlepp us around for awhile til you found another place. I didn't mind. It was always an adventure, even waiting for the bus in some of the less posh areas of the city.

But in all seriousness, now I see you crying, Mom. I see you doubled over with grief. You are still grieving the death of Grandma, too .... I get it. But guess what: she left a message for me when I checked in. She wanted me to tell you she is proud of you, how you've handled all this. She also said she hopes you will find a proper job soon because you have to repay that student loan.

Oh Mom, I miss you. I loved sleeping on your head, stealing peas and chicken from your pot pies, jumping from bed to bed. You were always so amused. Remember when I sat on the green cloth over the box last week? You thought I was springing back to life, but really, I just wanted to give you one last Instagrammable video. I thought of you before me, I always did. You were the best mommy ever, even though yes I did miss my own mom, the one who laid on my box when you took me home from the breeder's in Brooklyn.

Oh Mom, dry your tears. I am so happy here. There are great pastures for me to run around in and did I mention the mice? I have our picture right beside me, you know, this one:

Ha ha ha. Now maybe looking at this you'll miss me a little less? Remember how feisty I was before I got sick? Remember when I lunged at your leg and caused that scar you still have on your right shin? That was because I was chasing Little Cat and then she darted into Grandma's bedroom. I saw you instead and you were just fresh meat to me. Sorry, Mom. I was an animal after all.

I love you, Mom. I promise I will write soon.

All my love, Wally.

Leaving home, he comes in

The door pushes open, I look up from my laptop.
"Come on, Wally. Come in."
I delight in this moment, between the time I have to worry and the
time it takes to call him to the bed. "Come here, little man."
Puppylove, Wallster, Walls ...I have other nicknames for him.
I wonder what his would be for me? Mommy, certainly. He looks at me
with those big emerald eyes, imploring to stop worrying.
'I know, I know, little man. I know I have to believe it will all work out.'

He's been tossed around before. Picked him up in Brooklyn one night, taken home
on the subway then transferred to a cab in Manhattan. He was so tiny, no bigger
than the horn on a bicycle.

"You're home!" I told the little grey furball as he waddled across my room. We
were four floors up on the Upper West Side, in a brownstone that looked spectacularly
Woody Allen from the outside, but darkly B Movie Horror inside. I shared
a bathroom with a bipolar man who'd alternately throw up and scream at me.

My step-mom said once on the phone, "Make sure you take lots of pictures!"

I did, I did, and thanked her for reminding me.

Wally looking at me from the side, like a lovestruck Romantic hero or Donny
Osmond if he were a nine-week-old kitten. Wally lying beside my shoe, smaller
than a woman's size 10 flip flop. Wally in my mom's arms when she came
to visit Thanksgiving, 2004. I thought he was "big" that night. Just
three months old, what did I know.

"He'll get to be that big," the Russian breeder had warned me, pointing
to her hefty Persians in the room.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No. Twenty pounds!" she said with a devious smile.

Wally cost me $350 total. I had paid the deposit then gone back
to pick him up a few weeks later, when he was old enough to leave "the nest."

The breeder said: "I called out 'Wally' and all the kittens would
turn around and look!"

I laughed.

I had chosen him not just because he was the biggest and cutest (in a sea
of cuteness, I might add) but he was the one who reached out to me. As I
was putting him back in the pen (is that what it's called?) and back to
his mother, he suddenly lay his paw on my finger.

I melted.

He must have weighed a pound, if that.

So tiny, but so much love. More love than I'd felt all day, all week,
hell, ever since my last cat had died. I never thought I'd get over
Wendell, but they'd told me at the vet's I should try to find another
furry little friend. I had a gift for such friendships, the sweet
veterinary assistant had said.

And so we began our journey together, Wally and I.

My friend Kelly watched him that first Christmas, traveling all the way from
downtown to 73rd and Broadway, schlepping up four flights of steps at least
three times, while I was in Southern California.

"That's a real friend," my dad had said.

"Yeah, and what's more is Wally's poop sticks to his butt."

Everyone laughed.

I came home and found a mound the size of planet earth following my little guy around the room. He meewed plaintively.

"It's ok, sweetheart. Mommy's here."

And I wiped it away with a smile.