Back when things were going to hell on a buttered slide (the handbasket was neither big enough nor fast enough), I spent a lot of time trying to find new homes for most of my cats.
I even had a blog that was supposed to be about Life with Cats, and it wound up being the vehicle I used in a final effort to find homes for them before I had to leave the house behind. Unfortunately, this was mostly unsuccessful — but there was one bright spot for two cats.
All my local friends shared the adoption posts, I think non-local friends might have as well, in the hope the info might make its way back to other friends or friends-of-friends who were in my area. And one of the local shares was to a gal who lived in one of the beach communities and already had one cat, but who wanted to adopt two of my girls, Waffle and Stimpy.
Waffle was Waffle not because she bore any particular resemblance to that breakfasty wonder, but because I mentally waffled about whether or not I’d keep her. Then, having decided to keep her as an outdoor cat, I waffled about making her an indoor cat — and did at the first big rainstorm. The vet estimated she was between five and seven years old, and she had a body shape and a quantity of fur suggestive of a Maine Coon. One of the fuzziest cats I’ve ever had. Not much for being picked up and cuddled, and not much for lap-sitting, but she liked to curl up snug beside me and be petted. And Stimpy, one of Poppet’s littermates, was named Stimpy after I picked her up to bottle feed her and she just had this very Stimpy look on her face. (If you never watched “Ren and Stimpy”, this reference will no doubt escape you; if you did, then you know exactly what I mean.) Stimpy was also a lovable klutz.
And because a friend shared my plight, my cats’ plight, with someone who was a stranger to me, Waffle and Stimpy found a new home, and had many wonderful adventures, including a move to Montana. And their new “mom” would pop up in my messages every twice in a while and tell me how they were doing, post photos of them in their new home, and generally let me know they were okay.
Until today, when she let me know Waffle had died, and “is buried in a forest and looking at the river”.
Which isn’t a bad thing at all. Waffle was nine or ten when new mom adopted her, and that was the end of 2011. Fourteen or fifteen years is a pretty good run for a kitty. Stimpy is still going strong, now a major lap-cat and perfectly okay sharing house space and nose boops with a 100-pound dog.
I miss them like crazy, same as I miss all the ones I had to give up, but I am so grateful they landed with an awesome human, and that I got to know how they were doing.