Requiescat In Pace, Smokey

Smokey, our old grey cat is dead. He was fifteen years old. He had survived saddle thrombrosis about three years ago, which slowed him down a little and required some daily meds to prevent another blood clot. He had been up to his usual “let me in / let me out” and channeling his inner raccoon at the water bowl routine early last week. 

Last Thursday, he was low energy, but restless. We think Aoife knew something was up, because she kept coming up to him as if to check up on him and would give him some licks. By the evening it was clear that I would need to take him to the vet. He went out that night, and crawled up under the outdoor sectional’s cover; as this wasn’t terribly warm, I brought him back inside to one of his cushions. 

Mark found him dead Friday morning. 

It will be weird not singing “Smokey, the Smokey Cat / Wonders where his dinner’s at” or “/ meow meow meow and all of that.” when I see him. It will also be weird not singing, “Kitty Food for Smokey / Kitty Food for Cicero, too,” during kitty meal time.

Since Friday is usually listener’s choice day on KWAX, I requested some cat themed music as a memoriam. In between some kitty waltzes, I heard a cat meow that sounded just like Smokey—I’m fairly certain it was part of a recording coming over the radio, but I’m very glad that I was hearing it while working from home alone in the morning instead of hearing it home alone in the night. Similarly, I walked into the dining nook, and for an instant thought I saw Smokey crouching out on the deck: it was actually a reflection of Mark’s shoes.

We think Aoife wonders where Smokey is; she seemed to be looking for him in the back yard Friday night.  I'm not sure what's going through Cicero's head, but I think he's noticed Smokey's absence during feeding time.

Some favorite Smokey stories:

When The Child and I first adopted Smokey, the shelter gave us a cardboard cat carrier to bring him home in. Half-way through the half-hour ride home, Smokey punched a claw through the top flap and forced it down into the box with him and managed to get out.

Smokey liked to groom Mark. https://johnburridge.blogspot.com/2019/09/cat-grooming.html

Smokey used to accompany us to the blackberry bushes a few blocks away. On our return, we ran into a dog. We could practically hear him saying, “A dog! I’ll hold it back as long as I can! Warn the others! Run! RUN!” He appeared at a house a few minutes after we did, agitated and almost panting, and had to lie down.


Smokey was visiting his “girlfriend,” a cat across the street, when a dog on a too-long leash went after her. Smokey leapt onto the attacking dog’s back and made it drop his girlfriend.

When we got a little black kitten, Cicero, Smokey didn’t find out right away. But the first time he saw a little black head peek out from a hiding spot underneath a printer stand, Smokey’s ears slowly swiveled back, his lips pulled back to bare his fangs, and he let out a long, slow hiss. Then he ran out of the house, ran across the street, and sought solace from our cat-lady neighbor.
https://johnburridge.blogspot.com/2016/09/mostly-cats.html
https://johnburridge.blogspot.com/2016/10/kitty-wars.html
https://johnburridge.blogspot.com/2019/02/smokey-and-cicero.html


Hiding out next door is how he responded when we brought home an American Staffordshire Terrier puppy, too. https://johnburridge.blogspot.com/2020/03/aofie.html


Smokey slowed down in his final years, and spent a lot of time finding sunny spots to nap in. He also liked to crawl underneath the outdoor furniture coverings, which were black, and which could turn into solar powered kitty saunas. His last year, he also developed a habit of digging in his water bowl like a raccoon washing his hands, which generated some spectacular puddles.