Okay, so Mojo's last name wasn't Long. It was Jojo. And I've never seen A Love Song for Bobby Long, so if it sucks, I apologize to my deceased cat for using it for the title. Those of you who have followed along here on the journal will know that our catson, Mojo Jojo was diagnosed with liver cancer and a mouth tumor back in August. It wasn't known exactly which came first, but it was known that the liver cancer meant that the mouth tumor couldn't be removed, because the anesthetic would have probably killed him. On Friday, we put our Mojo down.
Mojo was with me for twelve years. He was grey, and matty, and disgusting. He had no grooming habits, pooped constantly, and drooled in the water dish. He made a sport out of sneezing onto my eyeglasses. If my husband was in the bath, (yes, Dylan takes baths. A ton. With bubbles. Go on, judge him. I do.) Mojo would demand a cup of "tea" which was pretty much just hot water. He fell down a lot. When on a lap, he would ensure constant pets by repeatedly slamming his head into your hand or arm. He had no control over his hind claws.
We miss him a lot. We were with him to the end, and consider it a blessing we had so much time to spoil him. For the last few days of his life, he received small bits of his favorite food: Reese's peanut butter cups. I know, bad for cats, but come on, he was dying. Afterward, we came home and joked that we should torture ourselves further by watching My Dog Skip and Marley & Me. We didn't, obviously. We're not masochists.
And that's it. So long, grey cat. Whereever you are now, I trust you may eat all the chocolate you want. Or maybe you're a dolphin. Because you were always a little weird like that.