I put my cat down this morning. Weasel was at least 17 years old, though I don't remember the exact date we got him in 1990. He was still a kitten at the time, and I'd not had a Siamese cat before. I came to love the quirks of that breed. What makes his old age even more amazing, are the facts that a) he only came in the house to eat and, b) he was still able to move around well until just this last week. I noticed he was having a bit of trouble with his left side late last week, and we found him last night, under a bush in the front yard, not only unable to stand but barely able to try. We brought him inside and endured a night of listening to his crying in discomfort before taking him in this morning.

If I sat at the computer while he was eating, he would climb into my lap when he finished and purr contentedly. As soon as I got up, he would ask to go back outside. When I would come home, no matter the time of day or mode of transportation, bike or car, he would meet me in the driveway and come inside for a bite to eat. He was no trouble at all. And he lived with me almost as long as my three wives all put together.

So long my friend.