For someone who likes history as much as I do, it is surprising that, in my own life, dates are not very important. I will note when a significant event occurs, and I will commemorate it if I remember it, but I don’t always remember it.
Five years ago today, my foster-cat and friend, Bear-Bear, died. I almost forgot the actual anniversary. But it doesn’t matter. I remember Bear-Bear.
I recall that the BB was a long cat, and that he liked to eat his soft-food on the second step of the stairs to the basement of my house. He used to make a ‘raa’ sound, sometimes a ‘rao’, if he was in that sort of mood. I remember he loved laps, and moments before he died at the veterinary hospital, when he was very weak, he tried to crawl on to my lap. I placed him there, and that’s where he passed away.
I remember my friend, Tungsten, too. She died thirteen months after Bear-Bear, on March 26th, 2015. She was my first cat, and paid the price too many times for my ignorance of, and inexperience with, feline kind. But she was tolerant. Well, to an extent. She was the top-cat, once I started bringing in others. She liked to curl around my hand while lying on my lap, and lie in it while we slept in bed. She was very small, physically, but a giantess in spirit.
So too will I remember Parker, when his time comes. That will be shortly, I fear. I will note the day of his death, and I will commemorate it, if I recollect it at the time. But if I don’t, it won’t matter. I will remember him. I will remember all of them.