Little Smoke-man. How I adore you. Even when you drove me crazy. Silly little kitten, you were just a bug when I adopted you. Small enough to hide behind stuffed animals, small enough to fit in a sweatshirt pocket.
Teeny, gray and freaked by the big dog, Cyrus. And yet you settled right with the Ohio clan. Sheba mothered you, Sasha swatted you and Cyrus just ignored you, huh.
What a sweet, little boy you were.
And then the little black puppy came. That was ok, right? He was smaller than you, right? But he kept growing. And kept growing, and kept growing. And he discovered the joys of chasing you out of the room to make you squeak.
Now that Schemie has gone to the bridge, you are back to sitting on the couch with me and following me. No one chases you now. Those dogs with the long noses and long legs really don’t even notice you.
And you miss the chasing, don’t you, little man. You always did secretly enjoy it.
Now here you are, kidneys not being nice, hypothyroid, yet still going strong and still a little imp.
Happy birthday, Smokey Bear! Mama loves you. Always.