I Was A Fan

This morning, a great soul was put to rest, and he will be greatly mourned by his fans.

Because cats know that the only proper feeling a person should have for them is adoration.

My kitty died this morning, so I'm feeling sad. I'm resorting to a flippant blog post to keep the tears back. He was fifteen years old. I usually get really annoyed when people grieve in public over their pets; other people's beloved Fluffies and Barkleys and Harleys don't mean anything to me, and I always had a prideful sense of the superiority of my own pet. But I'm just like everybody else after all.

He hated kids and almost always bit them if they got within a few feet of him. He liked to make really unearthly yowls when he was in a room by himself. He treated my sister like he was her abusive boyfriend (he stalked her, got jealous of her friends, got vengeful when she didn't go to bed when he thought she should, and even threw up in her boyfriend's prom shoe out of spite). He wouldn't come when he was called, but he would come when he heard that characteristic rip of a string cheese being opened. His favorite place to sleep was in a basket of towels, straight out of the dryer. He had a strange thing for Crayola markers, and I will never forget having to explain to my history teacher that my cat ate my poster. In his later years, he became a lap cat, and he kept me company through a lot of graduate school assignments.

And I have enough kitty fur on my clothes to keep me from forgetting him for several years, just in case I ever would.