We adopted him from a friend who thinks he was dumped in the field behind her house. The vet guessed his age to be 5. That was 14 years ago. He would have been 20 this year.
We named his Dusty, but somehow that turned into Moose for me.
I'm missing that boy every day.
I miss him waiting in the kitchen for the bowl of crunchies (kibble) to be set down.
I miss having a small (but heavy) body rocket onto my stomach when I dared lie on the couch to read.
I miss playing the "provoke you" game by quickly patting his paws as he sat next to me.
I miss the quite vocal demand for breakfast, which toward the end included as much tuna and pumpkin as he wished.
I miss his insistence on going out on the deck on the hottest of days to soak up the sun.
But most of all I miss the purr every time I picked him up the last week of his life.
He had found a dark room in the basement to spend his last days. I'd go down often, bring him up to the kitchen and set him before the water bowl to make sure he stayed hydrated. And he purred each and every time.
Goodbye sweet little Moose