Adieu, Koko

On Wednesday afternoon, my parents took our cat Koko to the vet to be put down. He was about 16/17 years old and had been steadily declining in health over the past few months. It was a difficult decision for my parents to make, but I think it was the best one.

Koko was a Greek cat, born in Athens of a Siamese mother (we think that’s how he inherited his characteristically loud yowl) and a black and white father who lived on Athens’ streets and whose enemies had left him only a raggedy end of a tail.

I remember picking Koko particularly from the litter of three cats, because he seemed to be the most playful and energetic. When we brought him home to our apartment, he skittered across the wood floor and put down his feet tentatively on the bedspread, having never before felt the touch of cotton fabric.

We brought Koko back in the plane to the U.S. with us in the summer of 1997. He had to spend the night in London to be checked by the veterinary authorities, but arrived safe and sound a day after we did. Koko became an American cat, watching rabbits eat green beans in the garden and staining his fur with the red North Carolina earth.

Koko, I'm sorry I wasn't there to say goodbye. I know sometimes as a little girl I annoyed you, but it was only because I wanted to pet you and be with you. I hope you enjoyed our games as much as I did.

Koko, we loved you very much and we will miss you ; you were a part of the family and we’ll never forget you. You traveled a long way in your life ; good luck on this last journey - kalo taksidi.