Popper Leonard “Lenny” Salemink passed away Tuesday, July 27, 2021, after a short illness. (Or it could have been a long illness, we don't really know. Lenny was a stoic and didn't show pain). He was born April 26, 2010, and - after a frequently referenced PowerPoint presentation by Gabby on how she would take care of him - was adopted by the Salemink family from the Iowa City Animal Shelter on August 4.
Lenny was not big on snuggles (ask Gabby), but if you needed a glass of water tipped over or anything knocked off a table, he was your man . . . er, cat. Lenny had an impressive .95 carpet yacking average, avoiding throw rugs and hard surface floors with nearly every at-yack. He could tip spill-proof bowls with ease.
Lenny excelled at biting ankles (ask Scott), being underfoot, and playing “hide and ignore” when sought. He was not a fan of cat toys – especially toys that crinkled, chirped, or otherwise made noise - but did enjoy watching his humans try to entice him to play (ask Max).
He was the “bestest boy,” although he was disdainful of baby talk.
Lenny was scared of strangers, dogs, work trucks, the doorbell, lawn mowers, plastic bags, his own shadow, and Max’s room, but not thunder or fireworks. He detested car rides, and when being loaded into his pet carrier could out-wrestle Dan Gable.
Lenny like basking in patches of sunshine, laying on top of hot-air vents, and sitting on his box/throne to peer down upon the peasants parading past his window. He liked to go outside, particularly if someone would go outside with him (to guarantee a return indoors). He would occasionally venture as far as the driveway, where he would lie down under a vehicle, just out of reach.
Lenny could sound like a herd of thundering elephants when running laps down the hallway, through the kitchen, around the dining room table and back. He could jump up onto the counter with the grace and silence of a ninja. Usually.
Lenny was the best napping buddy ever (ask Joanne), as long as you had a blanket on your lap and you held perfectly still. He had the warmest tummy for belly rubs (only when invited), the itchiest chin for scratches (all the time), and the softest fur for general petting (and shedding). He was quick to purr and loved “making biscuits,” although he never mastered the claw-free knead.
He was a “handsome boy.”
Lenny offered head butts to the sad and would listen to your woes with an expression of compassion (often mistaken as apathy) on his fuzzy little face as long as you rubbed his ears. He ignored those who wanted his affection, and circled unwelcomely near those who did not.
He was the “sweetest boy.”
Lenny leaves behind a plethora of carpet stains, a threadbare area rug/scratching pad, numerous tumble-fur fluff balls, and a heartbroken family.
He was the goodest boy, and he will be missed.