A Tribute to my boy, Loki: The Terrorist, The Blanket-Dweller, The Legend
Ladies, gentlemen, and those who currently have biscuit-kneading marks on their bladders, I wrote this to celebrate the life of one Loki who departed from this dimensional today.
Loki entered mine and wife’s lives on the 9th of November, 2018, courtesy of the Cats Protection. We took him in alongside his brother, Thor. It was a noble endeavor. We thought, "How lovely, two bundles of joy." What we actually acquired was a pair of absolute, unmitigated terrorists.
Let us be clear: as a kitten, Loki operated with the tactical brilliance of a seasoned insurgent. No ankle was safe. No foot was considered off-limits. If you had the audacity to possess curtains, Loki considered them a climbing frame; if you had carpets, he considered them a personal canvas for destruction.
His crowning achievement, however, was the "Great Christmas Tree Incident." Within 24 hours of setting up our first tree, he and Thor had managed to dismantle the entire display, finishing off the performance by aggressively chomping through the lights. It is, frankly, a statistical miracle that he made it to almost eight years old, given that his early dietary preferences seemingly included high-voltage wiring.
But then, as if by some miraculous administrative error in the celestial office, he grew up. The destruction subsided, and in its place emerged a creature of singular… simplicity.
Loki was a cat who, by all physical evidence, possessed absolutely zero brain cells. He was a bouncy, joyful, perpetually confused enigma. He was the only creature I have ever known who viewed a blanket not as a mere household item, but as a mandatory life-support system. He wasn't just a cat who liked to sleep on things; he had to be under things. If a blanket was available, Loki was somewhere beneath it, presumably pondering the great mysteries of the universe—or, more likely, forgetting where he was.
He was a creature of paradox. He wanted to be near you at all times, like a stalker who had forgotten his original purpose. Yet, for the longest time, he refused to actually sit on you. He maintained a strict, professional distance—until, recently, he decided that his human was, in fact, a glorified heated mattress, and finally relented.
We will miss the vital services he provided:
The 5am Wake Up Call: Who else is going to ensure we are awake to provide breakfast?
Chief Niffler of Treats: A position he held with immense professional pride and very little moral compass.
The Morning Knead: Because nothing says "Good Morning" quite like a feline performing unauthorized massage therapy on one’s bladder.
The Snotty Nose Probe: A highly specific, highly invasive, and entirely unforgettable greeting method.
Loki was a ridiculous, wonderful, maddening, and utterly delightful disaster. He was, quite simply, the finest terrorist we ever had the pleasure of loving. He was loved beyond measure, and while the house feels remarkably quiet and significantly safer for our ankles, it is a great deal emptier without him.
Farewell, you glorious, brainless little menace. You shall be missed forever.