RIP my baby, my angel, my Skipper
(Pictures after all the writing)
He died yesterday. My baby, my favorite cat. It hurts so much, I can't really express how much. My heart is broken, and I'm going to miss him forever.
What can I really say? He was a lovely angel boy. From the moment my Grandma and Aunt came in the door with him, he was mine. They found him at a bank, God knows how he got there. I’d never had a kitten before. My aunt always found cats when they were a bit older, but this one was a sweet, perfect little kitten. They were all sitting on the couch, passing this little baby back and forth. He had a little white chest, little white fluffy belly, and lots of stripes on his back. We always said he looked like he was wearing a sweater. He had big ears and big eyes, and a little black strip on his nose. I basically fell in love as soon as I saw him. My parents knew we were keeping this one. Because of his little black nose we wanted to call him Charlie (for Chaplin), but we wound up calling him Skipper.
He became my little partner. I carried him around everywhere, his little chunky paws perched on my shoulder, looking around at everything and everyone. When I wasn’t carrying him in my arms, I had him in one of my doll beds. I had my Dad make a small little dog house, but it wasn’t for any dog. It was for Skipper, and I wrote his name loud and proud on the outside, in bright colors so everyone would see. He went in there and sat in the doorway, probably because he knew I wanted him to.
I grew up with him. He was always there, right behind me. There’s basically a photo of me and him from every important event in my life. I’d get home from a dance recital, pick up Skipper and take a picture. I got my first degree black belt, picked up Skipper, took a picture. I graduated high school, picked up Skipper, took a picture. I shared everything with him. Every time I left him to go to college, I was leaving a piece of myself behind.
He would always sit with me, curled up against my legs. All I had to do was say his name and he’d look over, eyes wide, and he’d talk right back. He’d try to race me into my room. I’ll always remember, this December, when he sat outside my room when I was trying to go to sleep, and he was sticking his little feet under my door. I, of course, didn’t care what time it was, didn’t care how tired I was. I went out there and sat with my little boy. A few nights later, after my birthday party, I felt sick in the middle of the night, like I might throw up or something. Despite the fact that I was leaning over the toilet, green in the face, Skipper ran into the bathroom and cuddled up behind me, purring. He was just happy I was awake.
This weekend, I could tell my little baby was on his way out. But God made it possible for me to go see him, one last time, and my Mom swears to me that he was completely different once I got there. He was purring, he was meowing like he used to, he was trying his very best to eat and cuddle like nothing was wrong. My Mom swears it was all because of me. The person he loves most, she says. I’m so, so happy I was able to make him happy, one last time. Now that he’s gone, I feel like my heart is broken. He definitely took part of me with him. I’ll never, ever forget his little chunky snowball paws, his fluffy chest, his little looks of anticipation. I’ll never forget the way he’d jump up on the couch to sit next to me, turning his head under, scooting closer, his paw on my leg. I’ll never forget how wonderful it was to carry him around, how proud I was to have him, how proud I was that he was mine.
I hope he knows how much I love him. I can’t wait to see him again one day, and kiss that sweet little head of his.
I’ll never, ever forget you, Skippy baby, my little doodlebug. I love you so much.
