by Scott Smith
Martha Kitty died earlier this morning.
Martha was the loner kitty, a crazy calico. She chose when to give some lovin’ and it was intense. She would knead my back for 15 minutes if I lay still and wore polar fleece. She also liked dress pants. After U&A, going on interviews for the first time in more than a decade, she always found me, leaving large swaths of fur on my cuffs.
Most mornings George and Martha would wrestle and yell at each other, which in turn would cause the border collies to bark. It was a reliable alarm clock.
She was the mouser of the crew. Falco had no interest in chasing, and George and C.C. lacked a killer’s instinct. Not Martha. The chase wasn’t the point, the kill was.
The girl liked her boxes and open suitcases. She sought and found comfort in confined spaces. She comforted my old lab, Slicer. As Slice lay dying, it was Martha that slept next to her.
Most of all I’ll remember Martha for the socks. Each morning she’d drag several down the stairs, trophies from her imaginary kills. That hadn’t happened the last week or so, and I should have known something was wrong with her. Two fresh piles of socks to sort through on the table and not one was moved.