I had an enormously sad day yesterday.
Mr. H., the tabby who thought he was James Dean, was sent to join his brother in the great kitty playground in the sky.
I was one of his “moms” for five years, from kittenhood to his prime. He went on to other adventures, but always allowed my adoration with good grace. He was one of those chunky cats who tried all the Siamese acrobatics and ended up crashing around like a little striped bulldozer, ornaments scattering in his wake. He liked chewing buttons, hiding under scatter rugs and never met a piece of kibble he didn’t like. More a good-time boy than a scholar, he was always affectionate and ready to play.
I was sorry to see his passing, but it was as good and loving as humans could make it. It’s a hard call to know when enough is enough, and I was grateful that this time the decision was not mine to make. He could have gone on, but there was a lot of discomfort. I think a final, quiet afternoon nap was the right choice.
Cats deal with these occasions better than people. They do what they have to do and move on. We did the best we could to honour his contribution to our happiness, with single malt and a viewing of the Fellowship of the Ring.
Miss ya, little guy.