No one wants the old cats

I didn't want an old cat.  I figured it would die and break my heart. 

Then I met Frosty, and he loved me more in 5 years than I'd had in my lifetime.  When he died, I fell into a month-long depression.  The vet estimated him at 13. 

Bubba got old and slow.  At the end, he was too feeble to get his treats, so I'd bring them to him.  His last day, he didn't want any treats.  And I said goodbye. 

A few days later, I went to the shelter.  I didn't want an old cat, how about a nice black kitten? 

She was adopted a few weeks later. 

I prayed about it, led to go to the county shelter.  I felt led to go in a certain free-range cat room. 

I sat down, praying for God to please show me the "right" cat, one way or another. 

That's when Torbie got in my lap.  She was a nice tortie-tabby.  She was already fixed, an adult.  She was very sweet and cuddly with me. 

She also hissed at the other cats who got near us.  She wanted to be my cat. 

The techs were watching us eagerly.  I told them I'd take her. 

"Oh, good!" one replied.  "No one wants the old cats!" 

How old is she? 

Oh, we don't know.  Maybe 5-8 years old. 

Right.  She snored.  Frosty and Bubba only snored when they passed 10 years old. 

I took her anyway, it was apparent to all of us I'd been chosen.  And I've discovered something. 

I want the old cats.  I love them. They have such a sweetness about them.  They are so grateful for so little, and bursting with love.  I love to sleep with a cat in my bed and an old cat thinks that's just right. 

My next one will most likely be an old cat, unless God sends another kitten to our door like He did with Baby Girl.