End of an era

My cat Fluffah is dead.  After I got home from work last night, Dave and Cleo mentioned that they hadn't seen Fluffah all day.  I started looking for him, and ironically found him inside his covered litter box.  He was lying on his side and barely moving.  When I picked him up with a towel, he started having small seizures.  His eyes were shut, and his breathing was shallow, so I put him in his favorite cat bed in front of the fire and sat with him for a spell.  His buddy Randall (who's sixteen and not long for this world either) shared the bed with him for a while.  He never came out of it, never opened his eyes or made any sound again.  He had already left his  body by the time I found him, but it was agonizing that it took him so long to finally stop breathing.  It is fitting of Fluffah that he chose to die in the litter box on the same day as Charlton Heston.  Truthfully, he was never the nicest cat, but he was certainly memorable.  We had a special relationship with one another from the moment he moved in with me after being abandoned by a pair of pretentious art-fags that named him "Modigliani."  We've been through a lot together.  I will always have a pocket in my heart for him, even though he was spiteful and rebellious and very very expensive with his constant haircuts and his bizarre eye infection that resulted in his unique one-eyed look.  He inspired an entire art show with his physical manifestation.  He was loyal, and never failed to rush in and greet me in the bathroom.  His constant shrieks when he became senile were usually more amusing than annoying.  He was a shrewd judge of character, and always knew who the good humans were.  He was tenacious, and never backed down from a visiting dog.  He was resourceful, and knew which neighboring houses to hit up for food and attention.  He was transcendent.  He is a legend.

Rage on, Fluffah.   You'll be missed.

Wow

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Fluffah