Almost 16 years ago, I went to the local humane society and fell in love with a little kitty with a tiny voice and black spots on his belly. I named him Seymour, my grandmother’s maiden name. I had no idea how that tiny kitten would grow into a huge cat, but his little voice and spots always remained. He was big and lazy and loved to eat, but he could move when he needed to like when chasing birds and running to his food bowl. I loved his loud purr and big paws and what a beautiful cat he was. With broken hearts, we had to say goodbye to him this past week.

I immediately started looking for pictures of him. I found some really old ones that I feel so grateful to have, and a lot more recent images of him than I thought I would find since I rarely have tried to just get his portrait. My cats are worse than my kids about getting their pictures taken, they often run the moment they see my camera. I wager he is in a lot more photographs than these, forever walking through a frame, waiting at his food bowl, or just in the background hanging out.

I miss him most in the mornings where he always sat by my side for 5:30am meditations and at my computer snoozing and purring while I attempt to spend some kid-free time working. Even those last couple of days when I could tell he no longer wanted to jump or climb the stairs well, he still jumped on the couch and desk to be at my side. It is still weird to think of him being gone. He has been a big part of our lives for so long.

We buried him in the backyard under a tree where I can see him out the window. I’ve been throwing bird seed by his spot so the birds and squirrels can eat in peace, thinking of how he used to watch them out the window “ick-icking” wanting to go chase them. Sweet MoMo Booties, we will love you always.