I was perusing (okay, okay, doom scrolling!) Facebook four years ago when I came across a post from a coworker that would, unbeknownst to me, change my life for the better. Her father had recently passed, and she was looking for a loving new home for his cat to live out his retirement.
He was toothless, clawless (courtesy of an owner before her dad), looked like an absolute grump, and his name was Booger. I was in.
We already had three kitties at home, and bringing in another felt like a risk — but we took a chance on a cat we knew would have a harder time finding his place elsewhere.
Booger fit right in.
He settled into his role as the quiet, noble leader of the household (please don’t tell his sister Gabby, who is fully convinced she runs the roost.) He turned daily wet food (“chookie”) feedings into twice daily affairs, sometimes three, because second dinner is simply non-negotiable. He determined the order of who gets to sit in the open kitchen window. And somehow, with no understanding of the complexities of time and no explanation, he just knew when it was 4:30 p.m. and his other mom was on her way home to feed them.
He was far too dignified for most human food, but Wendy’s burgers were another matter entirely. He loved them so much he had his own standing order: burger, no bun, no condiments, no cheese. The man had standards.
He’d trot the moment he spotted the blue laundry bag because that meant warm towels fresh from the dryer and comfort waiting inside. He loved lounging in our suitcases before and after trips. He was a sweetheart to just about everyone. Well, except the vet, whom he regarded as a mortal enemy despite being completely defenseless. That appointment was not happening without gabapentin or else he’d be throwin’ paws.
When we brought home Figaro, a tiny six-week-old kitten we found on the streets, Booger was the first to greet him. And then he took him under his wing. He showed Figaro the best sunny spots for an afternoon nap, how to part the dining room curtain just enough to keep a watchful eye on the noisy kids next door, and the fine art of curling up on a mom’s lap right when she’s just about ready to get up.
Every single night since we brought him home, he has slept on my butt or between my legs, save for maybe ten nights when he decided to stay downstairs with his siblings. He has listened to my work frustrations, my family stress, my friendship worries, and my endless rants about the state of this country without a single complaint. He has been so much more than a cat. He has been my best friend.
And as the moment draws closer to having to let him go, my heart keeps breaking into smaller and smaller pieces with every memory that surfaces. Even I, a self-proclaimed crazy cat lady, cannot believe that one eight-pound furball could so quietly, so completely, change my life and expand my heart the way he did.
These four years have made me better. And I hope, I really hope, that I made his better, too.
Goodnight, my Booger Nation. My Booger Sue. Booger T. Washington. My Booger Wooger Bugle Boy from Company B. Your physical body may be leaving us tomorrow, but the love your spirit has given us will live on as a piece of my heart forever.