Ave atque Vale

Something I failed to write about almost two weeks ago - by choice mostly - was the passing of our last cat, Cedric. I could, I suppose, come up with many rationalizations as to why I didn't write on it; the reality is, it's still a little painful.

Cedric was the first of the cats we got in 1994. We adopted him from the pound: we pulled him out of the cage, he put his paws around my neck, and we were done.

He was a loving cat - he loved to sleep with me and Allison on the bed, loved to get petted. Even later, after he moved out to the garage because of urinating inside, he was still always happy to see us, running up in the morning chirping, ready for his morning food, even tolerating Na Clann to pet him.

He went outdoor sometime around 2003-2004, and seemed to love it: he never wandered too far from the house, loved laying out in the sun, and generally seemed happy. Because he was out during the day, we saw less of each other.

By a fluke of the move (and his travel arrangements), he ended up sleeping in my lap or under my seat most of the drive out here in August. He was already so thin then but still happy. It was a happy experience, as we had not spent so much time together in a while. He purred and was very happy.

I'm not sure if the move, or the change, or even the temperature change (although he was inside) did something, but he suddenly started to decline rapidly - he was, by that time, at least 15 years older if not more. Finally, one Thursday two weeks ago, we made the trip to vets. The vet looked at him and said "It looks like you've gone just about as far as you can go."

And with that, we were done.

He's out on the side of the house now, underneath two irises in the sun he loved to sleep in so much.

Hail and Farewell, Old Friend.