The orange cat is no more. Nineteen years. It’s hard to be sad about that, but I still am. And I think I just decided that the reason that it’s weird is that it’s pure sadness. I don’t long for him to have lived longer. I don’t feel like he was cheated out of anything. He had a big, long life, full of glorious adventures and then, on the Ides of March, he came to the end of it.
He was grouchy and ridiculous. He was brilliant and judgemental.
I’m going to miss him. Assuming he doesn’t pompously believe he’s entitled to defy the laws of physics to show back up here.