I woke up this morning when it was still dark out, and Max was standing by my pillow, staring at me. Buddah was curled up on my chest, staring at me. I reached out to pet them both; Max plopped down and tolerated it, Buddah wiggled happily and went back to sleep.

Then it hit me. Moe. She’s been gone 4 years today, and last year I swear she was haunting my apartment, whipping Max into a meowing frenzy. Since the cats were on the bed together—peacefully, which doesn’t happen often—I had the thought that she had a hand in their cuddly dispositions, and went back to sleep.

I had an odd dream about celery (one of the few things she was able to eat for a long, long time) and baseball (she was an avid Yankees fan, so to yank her chain I should be cheering “Go ’Sox!”) None of it made sense (especially the odd bit about being a deaf interpreter in an operating room located in the center of a cafeteria,) though when I woke later I tried to piece the fragments of the dream together into something coherent, but it didn’t matter. One way or the other Moe was there, poking at me with a celery stick, letting me know that she knows I haven’t forgotten her.

I’ll never forget her. I’ll always miss her. I’ll always wish for seeing her name pop up in my email. I’ll always be grateful for knowing her, and it’s a damn shame that the rest of you didn’t have that chance.

Well, a couple of lurkers might have. They know who they are. And they know they’re lucky as hell.

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