Smudge was born on approximately August 15, 1999, the second smallest of a litter of barn kittens. At the age of 6 weeks, too small to jump onto my bed at night, she and her calico sister Chip became my 8th birthday presents – but Smudge was always mine.
She remained tiny throughout her life, a lover of laps and belly rubs. She was a constant companion, tolerating being dressed up in doll clothes (never by me – only be friends), her soft fur drying many, many tears. She would come when I called her name, her belly wobbling back and forth. She knew that yelling, especially in her later years, was the best way to get attention (and she was right).
She was stubborn. After radiation treatment for her thyroid, she had to sleep in a separate room, only to make her presence known every morning by ramming her 7-pound body against the closed door. Losing sight in one eye never slowed her down. She would claim laps for hours on end, her purr a gentle, comforting rumble.
Smudge outlived all of her siblings, living to nearly 21 and a half and through three separate presidential administrations (her calming presence was most important during the last). She left this world on her own terms, after saying goodbye to her girl one last time.