Milo

I found Milo in an animal shelter in Des Moines 10 years ago. It was a Sunday afternoon and he was the last kitten left. His head was too small for his body, his ears too big for his head. He had a skinny tail and a big personality. The shelter volunteer described him as "ornery." Living alone, I wanted a quiet companion who would greet me every day and cuddle with me at night. When I brought him home that day, he ran circles around my apartment, leaping from table to windowsill. He was hyper and a bit psycho. I sat on the couch watching him, wondering if he was the right cat for me. As if suddenly noticing me, he hopped onto the couch, curled into a tight ball on my lap and purred. I was smitten.



For the next 10 years, Milo slept on my pillow almost every night. He kneaded my hair, stuck his wet nose in my ear and often laid his head on mine to fall asleep. He cried when I left every morning and welcomed my arrival. He sat on the bathroom sink while I got ready in the morning and sat on my lap when I worked from home. He was my buddy, my feline companion.



Life wasn't always easy for Milo. I thought he was lonely during the day, so I brought home George, an alpha-male farm cat who Milo hated. We moved five times, I got married and had a baby. Milo got fatter and less energetic.



He was diagnosed with diabetes in March. Kent and I dutifully gave him insulin shots twice daily and fed him a regular diet of diabetic cat food. His energy and feisty personality seemed to return. But last week, as we cleared the dinner dishes, we found him lifeless in his favorite spot on the living room couch.

The house felt different without him this week, my pillow colder. I'm thankful for the 10 good years I had with him; if only we had a few more.