They had to put my cat to sleep yesterday.

We adopted him when I was six years old; last month he turned fourteen. He was only a month old when we adopted him; his feral mother was probably hit by a car. He was so small he fell into his bowl of kitten formula. He didn't know how to give himself a bath. He was streetwise, for a cat— he liked to tussle with our ankles.

When he got older, he went through a period of night terrors. I would wake up in the early hours of the morning and carry him back to bed with me, holding him like a teddy bear until he got bored or fell asleep.

I miss the old guy. I wish I could have held him one more time.


In other, happier, news, Jenny's wedding was lovely and Grandma is doing much better.