When David and I first ran away to Maine together I had a cat. She was the most magnificent cat ever and I loved her so.
After a few weeks of living with The Baby Marmie Kitty as she was known to us, we decided that it was time to grow our little family and adopt more cats.
We adopted two cats, Penelope and Phineas. They were fine grey cats. One died about seven years ago and the other, Phineas is still alive and quite fat.
Since we did not yet have children to worry about, we poured all of our paternal angst into the cats. One day, when Phineas was still a young cat, he ate a wad of plastic from a plastic bag.
Oh no! Would he live?
I was at work so David rushed Phineas to the vet so that he could be watched and saved from certain death or at the very least, a belly ache.
As David put young Phineas in the car he heard a very pitiful sound indeed.
"MoooooooooooooMoooooooooMoooooooooooo" Phineas wailed from his cat carrier.
Oh, the grief that poured from that cat's mouth. David called me after he dropped Phineas off and imitated the sound.
Very quickly "mooooooo" became part of our strange lexicon of love. It has many meanings. Some days it means, "Oh, the agony of this life." Other days it means, "I love you." As a matter of fact David and I rarely say, "I love you."
Our conversations most often end with, "Moo Moo" and that my friends is true love.