My daughter Tory’s beloved Siamese, T Rex, died unexpectedly Sunday night. He was seven years old, young for a Siamese. Tory is devastated. Our family is devastated.
Tory raised T Rex, in a way only a quirky young girl could. Not knowing “the rules,” kitten and young mistress forged their way together toward young adulthood. Tory, having watched her friends and their dogs play endless games of fetch, taught Rex to fetch. She would throw a stuffed mousie. Rex would obediently run for it, drop it back at Tory’s feet then look at her expectantly. I watched the two of them, throw after throw, time after time. Then the game changed. Tory would toss the mousie and Rex would catch it in his teeth, then he’d nonchalantly toss it back to her! I swear Rex grinned the first time he saw my face after he tossed the mousie back to his mistress. And Tory? She thought it was normal. Because for them it was.
Rex would lounge most of each day away. Sitting in a sunbeam. Napping in his cushion. Until he heard Tory. I always knew when she was coming home because Rex would race to the front door and sit, staring. When Tory walked in Rex would stretch up and up her pantleg, talking to her the whole time. Tory would pick Rex up, rub his ears and murmur his name, over and over. Rex would wrap his paws around Tory’s wrist, the better to hold her close. Their bond was strong.
He will be missed.