So, Steve died three weeks ago.
And I’m not gonna say “he passed” or “we lost him” because, well, he died and it was just awful.
Is it fair to say that Steve was my soulmate? Perhaps. When I talk this way about him to my husband, Brian gets a bit blinky and tends to sort of clam up, but I think Brian’s OK with it. I have used other terms about Steve around Brian – words like, “he is my everything” and “he’s the wind beneath my wings” and so far Brian has been good about it. I mean, let’s face it, Brian has to be good about it right now because Steve just died, and arguing with me about my grief and affection for the Biggie Paws would a big fat marital no-no.
I miss my sweet Steve so much. I really do. I just have to say it.
I have written about Steve a lot. He has an entire chapter dedicated to him in my first book, Bottled – because Steve helped me get sober. YES he did and don’t argue. If you are in recovery, and you have a sobriety pet, THIS MAKES TOTAL SENSE.
In fact, if you look closely, this website has a whole page dedicated to the deliciousness that was Sir Meows A Lot.
My heart is still grieving and I think it will always. He was just that good of a cat. So, in the style of Judith Viorst (she’s one of my favorite authors ever) – here is:
The Tenth Good Thing About Steve
- Steve was a weighted blanket. Anxious? He’d clamber up on you, purring, and weigh you down with girth and love.
- Steve had a really big head. And body. All of him, actually. But petting his large, soft noggin was… substantial. Yes, there will be numerous points here that will mention his circumference.
- In the morning, when I would head downstairs to get my coffee, my two dogs and Steve would all thump downstairs too. I used to think of it as the “Running of the Pets.” It made a lot of noise and there was some jostling. But Steve always managed to be first. Watching his large white haunches hustle down those stairs always made me smile. Steve did love his brekkie.
- You could actually hear Steve jump down from a bed or a perch upstairs if someone was at the door. He was loud. He made himself known. And he needed to say hello.
- Steve had a deep love for anyone who had a cat allergy. He would lay on this person (or try to) and look up at him with adoration. “I will change you,” his eyes would say. “Shhhhhhhh, my love. Allergies, shmallergies.” I always kind of judged the ones who would manage to shoo him away (Steve was persistent – usually three attempts were made). Steve and I would make eye contact and I would give a tiny nod. That person was now dead to us.
- Steve did not give any f–cks. Ever. About anything.
- When Steve was sick a few years ago (he had surgery – it was a lot) I slept with him in the bathroom one night because I didn’t want him to be alone. At one point he reached out his paw and just set it on my face, and I knew he appreciated the company.
- Steve often would crawl up on Brian at night. Brian, a man who often has refereed to cats as *rats with more fur* would be hypnotized by Steve’s slow blinks and succumb to scritching him behind his ears for as long as Steve graced him with his presence. If Steve was a cult, then sign me up.
- If anyone was ever crying in our house, Steve would show up and slowly climb up on him (Or her. Me, ok? It was often me). His warmth made it better of course, but also his look of, “Brah, why you crying? I am here. It’s chill dude. Life is hard but I am soft.” He was, as I have referred to in my book, the Jeff Spicoli of cats.
And 10. Steve was, as all pets are, generous with his love, his time, and his softness. All he wanted was food, cuddles, and a sunny spot to sleep, and I shall miss him every day.
Life is hard. Steve was soft. May we all have a Steve.