They Just Plain Aren't Right

My family's track record with animals just isn't all that grand.  Don't get me wrong.  We don't kill them or mistreat them or anything.  We just don't have the best luck with finding "normal" animals.  What at first was thought as a family-pet complex is now an accepted understanding.  The Murray's always end up with "special" animals.

Take, for example, our Siamese cat Ty-Lee.  She suffered from such bad sinuses that she sneezed incessantly, and she left cat snot and boogers everywhere, especially in her favorite spot in the hallway.  There were cat boogers covering that one section of wall that I'm pretty sure my dad just gave up and painted over years after she left us.

Then there was Greta, our German-short hair pointer, who, because of some sick neighbor boys who taunted her with firecrackers, was DEATHLY afraid of storms.  And by deathly, I mean, as soon as the barometric pressure changed at all, she'd work herself into an outright-out of her mind-tizzy to the point that one of us, usually my mother, had to wrestle tranquilizers into her mouth and down her throat so that the rest of the neighborhood could sleep through the night.

Molly, the pretty gray cat we adopted from the litter of kittens my aunt and uncle's cat had, was an interesting feline.  She wanted nothing to do with any guest unless they were overnight guests.  Then she would slip between the sheets with them and sleep the entire night cuddled up against them.  We started calling her Blanche because she slept with EVERYONE.

Cricket was Mom's dog, and while she was hours of fun herself, she had her little quirks.  Like an addict with a bad habit for crack, Cricket was obsessed with popcorn, and if I had a dollar for every time someone in our house made popcorn because the crazy dog was begging for it, well, let's just say I wouldn't have to worry about paying back any student loans.  She also had one of the most disgusting habits I've ever witnessed.  She LOVED my dad's morning breath.  Not even kidding!

Which brings me to Moses.  Moses jumped out of the weeds while my parents were walking down the road, and chased them all the way to their house.  My mother valiantly tried to rid herself of this orange and white beauty, but he quickly weaseled his way into their home and our hearts. Mosey was a pretty boy.  He was like that male model that had all the beauty and no brains.  He audibly gagged when he smelled something he thought was stinky (stink bugs were a great gag-inducing scent for him!), and he would become motion sick and puke whenever you moved a stringed object above him, back and forth.  I mean, what cat does that?  Mosey did.

This past Saturday, my parents lost Moses.  He was 13 years old; he lived a charmed life there at the house on Albion Road.  I'm pretty sure that's why he chased them down the road that fateful morning, thirteen years ago.  He'd gotten word that if he could get into their good graces, he would be allowed to flourish and grow within his "specialness." And that he did.

Rest in peace, Pretty Boy.  Rest in peace.


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