He was just 5 weeks old and no bigger than the size of a softball. It was nearly 17 years ago when the furriest, blackest kitten came to live with me. I named him “Jazz” – as in “all that!”
I was a young, single woman living in a small apartment in downtown Holstein, Iowa. The moment I got my hands on him, I knew it was right. He was quiet, but I could feel him purring like the rumble of a classic car.
Over his long life, he quietly put up with:
– 3 apartments
– 4 houses
– 2 states
– 1 husband
– 1 Jack Russell Terrier (who liked to wrestle)
– 2 kids
– and 1 two-week adventure when he ran away (I still wonder what he did all that time.)
Much like any grieving process, I have passed through stages (often without realizing). Not until I took him to the vet last week did I start to notice all the things he was no longer doing. He was good for me — and I for him. But, sadly, it was time.
Hats off to Jazz — the greatest cat I’ll ever call my own!