When we moved to Kirkmont Drive we couldn’t help but notice the beautiful, long-haired cat that sat on a lawn three doors down. He’d greet everyone who walked past, sometimes ambling across the street to make sure he didn’t miss anyone. He’d bestow his blessing–a meow and a face rub–on each of us: human, dog, it didn’t matter. He was a fixture, a constant.
It wasn’t unusual to see a lineup of people and their dogs in front of his house, all waiting their turn for a face rub and greeting. It was a sight to see. Riley was wary but our late Little He LOVED Logan and looked forward to his daily face rubs. We all called Logan the Mayor of Kirkmont Drive and he was very much loved by us all.
But as with us all, he got old. A few years ago he took ill. His fur wasn’t as thick, he lost weight, and in the past year he rarely came out to survey his domain. A few weeks ago he made a rare appearance, meowing to get our attention. I had Michael take Riley ahead a few houses so I could get my Logan fix.
And then, last week, we turned left out of our driveway to walk Riley and saw this:
I couldn’t help bursting into tears.
Knowing how much he was beloved by our entire neighborhood, his people were thoughtful enough to let us know that his time had come.
“Affectionate and confident that we were all here to love him.”
His people also kindly gave us a place to write our memories of him.
Because we’d seen him less and less in the past two years, you’d think we would have had time to get used to the idea that one day he wouldn’t be out on our street. And of course, he wasn’t our kitty.
But as his family so aptly said, he was beloved, and by so many, I cried all the way through writing this post and cry every time I read it.
There’s a big part of me that wants things to always remain the same. For the things we love to never leave us. But of course, they do. We all must leave one day.
Logan left us last week, and our world was a little darker because of it.
Here are a few pictures from better times: two years ago: