A Remembrance of Smore.
Thursday night, my family lost a friend.
Smore was foundling. She was a fourteen-year-old Calico. She was Anna’s cat for several years before I entered the picture. Like Anna, she was beautiful and kind.
I met Smore one Saturday morning in January 2013. It was the day of my first date with Anna. I was waiting in the living room when a orange, black and white critter slinked in from the kitchen, and came over to sniff my shoes. I bent down and offered my hand, which she sniffed in turn.
“Hey there, kitty. Let’s be friends. We might be seeing each other for a while.”
Smore got used to me, and would climb from Anna’s lap up to her shoulder while we watched subpar television together. She had a funny habit of riding around on a shoulder like an overgrown, Totoro-shaped parrot.
When Anna and I got married in 2016, Smore (and her adopted brother Jasper) joined us in our first apartment. I still remember the day she disappeared; Anna was distraught, thinking she had gotten into the hallway and out the front door. It wasn’t until the next day that we discovered Smore happily emerging from an access hatch behind our dishwasher. I put an end to that escapade by screwing plywood over the hole — But Smore’s curiosity and exploration would last the rest of her life. Last fall, she spent the better part of a day exploring the crawlspace beneath our house while the plumbers replaced our ancient pipes. No matter how far she went, she always came back.
Smore would climb into, or on top of, anything she set her mind to. More than once, I found her perched atop the corner of our bedroom door.
Smore tolerated me from the start, but in a forced smile as you pass in the hall sort of way. It took a leaky bedroom one floor above ours to break the ice. When the apartment brought in a team of Norteno-playing drywallers to repair our ceiling, Smore fled the bedroom to nestle at my feet. Even after the spackle dried and the echoing accordions faded away, she stayed by my side. She had a distinctive call, more of a chirp than a meow, and a strong, resonant purr that I will always remember.
In 2019, Anna and I became homeowners. Smore and Jasper transitioned with us, and soon felt at home in our small yellow house, far from the barks of dogs and sounds of neighbors in the hallway. But their solitude was short-lived; Our firstborn arrived in 2020, once more driving Smore into her role as “Master Bedroom Cat.”
Over the last few years, her agility declined, but her affection remained strong. She would not climb up on shelves, or claw her way up doors like she used to; but she would hunt me down in the evenings, and purr while buffing my shins with her fuzzy sides in an effort to lead me to the bedroom. If that failed, she would escalate, headbutting my shins until one of us gave in (usually me). What she wanted from me, aside from food twice daily, was a flat chest to sit on while I tried to read in bed. This may have been her favorite perch, a place to feel secure and warm, all the while smacking me in the face with her tail. That warm, resonant weight on my chest is something that will never be replaced.
On Wednesday, we went through our established routine. I read a book and stroked Smore, while she purred on my chest. I did not know this was goodbye.
Thursday Evening, February 27, 2025, Smore passed away. We are not sure if it was a stroke, aneurism, or heart attack; her death came like a lightning bolt, leaving us thunderstruck and empty.
We have said goodbye to our friend. That does not mean the memories or pain will disappear; and why should they? Even a cat, small as it is among God’s creatures, suffers and groans under pains and death, until the day when all things are made new.
Perhaps, I will see Smore again. It does not seem so unlikely. I will not endeavor to speak where the Bible is silent. But even there, we are told that in the end, God Himself will make all things new. And that is where I put my hope.