Just before Thanksgiving, we lost our beloved Buttercup.
She was a remarkable spirit- probably the smartest, funniest,
most ornery kitty I’ve ever known. The Brigitte Bardot of cats,
gorgeous but goofy-looking, she couldn’t quite fit her tongue into
her smooshed Persian mouth.
She’d bite your hand off for broccoli or for trying to brush her; we learned to give her a lion cut every few months.
Mealtimes she’d occupy the chair beside me to claim her share of
whatever I was eating. She followed me into the bathroom
each night, demanding her dollop of coconut oil.
In rare, chilly pre-dawn moments, she’d wriggle under the covers and curl up
between us to get warm. And I would lie awake, grateful to stroke her lush fur.
She owned my heart, and it hasn’t stopped aching yet.