R.I.P., Awesome Cat

This weekend we experienced the sudden passing off our belovedly enormous cat, Mini.

We adopted Mini while we were still in college. He was the runt of his litter, sickly and small, but I fell for his long white fur and dairy-cow big black spots.

As we nursed him to health that summer we discovered that, after being neglected as a young kitten, Mini had developed some sort of feline eating disorder where he devoured anything in sight.

Coincidentally, Erik also found that Mini liked Cheetos and chocolate pudding and a number of his own favorite treats.

I went back to school on the east coast that fall and left Mini in Erik’s care. Whenever I called I could hear a faint crunching sound in the background.

“Are you feeding the cat Cheetos again?” I’d ask.

“Um… no?” was his weak reply.

But I had my answer soon enough. I returned home for winter break to find Mini the size of a smallish Buick. Not fat, exactly, just really… solid.

When we moved to our first apartment as a married couple my grandma baked us several dozen of her famous sugar cookies. Mini chewed through the plastic bag to get to them, though I couldn’t blame him. They were delicious. He also found his way into a bag of hamburger buns and a box of dry rice.

Over the years his name took on a sort of gangster quality, like “Tiny,” the mob enforcer who weighs 425 lbs.

But he was beautiful, and he knew it. Despite his size, he had feminine little paws and a slight prance to his step. With his long, well-groomed white fur, decorative spots, and a sprinkling of sassitude, it was clear that if Mini were a person he definitely would have been metrosexual.

And he liked being the center of attention. Each year at our Christmas party he waited until the Beam Punch had been flowing for an hour or so before sashaying into the living room and plopping belly-up and spread-eagle on the floor.

“Take it all in,” he seemed to say to our surprised guests. “It comes but once a year.”

And each night Mini waited until we were almost asleep before kneading our unsuspecting stomachs with the full force of his weight on his tiny paws. Erik coined it “stab poking,” which seemed redundant until you experienced it.

Mini formed a special bond with Jack. He tolerated any pat Jack was able to give, and a few tail pulls and failed attempts to carry or “ride” him.

Every time Jack cried, Mini came to check in on him, bouncing into the room with a sweet little “mew.”

Jack took Mini’s passing the hardest, and asked me if cats get to go to heaven. “What kind of place would it be if they didn’t?” I said.

The only other person he knows who went to heaven was my grandma, who loved cats as much as he does.

“I bet Nana is patting Mini in heaven right now,” Jack said.

I bet she is. Maybe she even made some sugar cookies, this time just for him.

You rocked, Mini. Thanks for the good times.