He was ten years old. He lived with us for eight years. We called him Pascal. He knocked over glasses of water when no one was looking. He slept between my legs. He meowed loudly at three in the morning. He let me carry him like a baby. He had a secret purr. For a while he had David Bowie eyes, but then he had Colonel Tigh eyes. He proudly carried toys to us like they were freshly caught mice. He told us about it. When our son was a baby he patiently let him bother him. He used to pull pizza out of the trash. He had chronically weepy eyes. He didn’t accumulate nicknames like Yoshi did or Orangey does. No Velvet Gentleman, no L’Orange Gras. Just Pascal.
He didn’t let on that he was sick. His kidneys failed and his body was shutting down when I took him to the doctor yesterday. But we didn’t know that. His temperature was dropping and his heart beat was slowing down. We had to put him to sleep.
He was a good cat and I will miss him.
