When I took you in nearly 21 years ago and rescued you from a farmer that was about to throw you against a wall to get rid of you, I called you Schrödinger. I was still young and considered it to be a funny name for a cat. I took care of you. We got rid of your fleas. You were still a wee kitten, and I became your new mother.
After my mother had died, I spent most of 2000 either in class or on my sofa crying. You always came to me and laid down on my chest, purring. You gave me strength. You made it better. Of course, you could not have understood why I’m crying, but you knew that I was in distress and wanted to help. And boy, you did.
You moved with me, first to Munich, later to Berlin. You did not care about new environments, as long as I was there. We took the night train together to Berlin, and you slept next to me. I kept watch to make sure you are fine, and you just slept through everything. You felt safe.
Now we’ve grown old together. You more than me of course, but still. I’m 37 now and don’t share a lot with the 17-year-old that adopted you. But both of us love you. I called you by so many names, Schrödinger, Schrödi, Schraubi, Mausebär, Mietzepeter and many more. You did never care about the silliness, all that mattered was you being the cat and me being your mother. I hope I’ve done an okay job. Sometimes I couldn’t be there for you, but I hope you liked being my cat. I liked you being my cat. A lot.
When you still had the strength, you came by our bed every night to lie down on my chest and purr good-night for a few minutes. I miss that. I will miss you. Being around, doing your cat things and now and then letting us know that you love us.
I just wish you could purr my sadness away once more, but it’s time for you to go, and I understand that. You lived a long life, and now you are tired and spent. Thanks so much for being my cat.