In Loving Memory of Kevin Yokom
(Kev Dog, Kevin Louise, Kevin Pooper, Baby)
Kevin was always more than "just" a cat — he was a quiet constant, a steady, furry presence who marked the passing of seasons and years with soft paws and slow blinks. He came into the world of his human as a college adventure — a trip from a Montana cattle ranch back to Fargo with a roommate and a small, curious soul who didn’t yet know he’d become home itself. From that trip forward, Kevin was a companion in every sense of the word: a constant friend through moves, milestones, and each of the "ordinary" days in between. Kevin was always there: not demanding anything, just being there. He was grumpy, he was stubborn, and he was absolutely perfect.
Kevin was a creature of odd, yet endearing habits. He was a “wall sitter,” famously leaning back like an old man in a recliner, one leg kicked out just so — dignified and ridiculous in equal measure. He adored secret hideouts: the back of a closet, the soft shadow under the Christmas tree, the crinkle of a plastic bag that somehow made the perfect fort. There, he’d nap or... perhaps more appropriately, he'd wait — ready to spring out with the dramatic flair only a cat of his magnitude can master.
He didn’t give affection freely; no, you had to earn it. When he did choose to share his love and affection, there was no mistaking his deep commitment to you. When his human came home, he would roll near the door in greeting and performative attention requests, rubbing against her legs like he was claiming her all over again. At night, when the world went still, he’d climb onto her chest, press his face against hers, and just breathe there — purring softly, as if to say, "this is my favorite part of the day."
Kevin loved simple pleasures: the taste of something salty, the sound of feathers in motion, the color red, and the quiet companionship of sitting beside his person as she worked on her laptop. He didn’t need much — just her presence, a cozy nook, and the occasional string to chew.
He was eight years old when he left this world — a grumpy old man, but the best kind. The kind who made you laugh, who taught you patience, and who loved you so deeply that the silence after him feels enormous.
Kevin was his human’s first pet — the one who showed her what devotion looks like in fur and whiskers, what it means to be chosen, and how much a small, stubborn creature can teach us about love that asks for nothing but time.
