Our big male cat, announced in this space in 2005, died suddenly. Bloggers’ cats get obituaries.
Marlowe always had a great coat and there was a lot of cat under it; in mid-life he became obese, but when we put him on a diet and his waist re-appeared he was one damn fine-looking cat.
He wasn’t terribly smart or terribly affectionate. He liked the outdoors and was a pretty good rat-catcher. Hey, we live near the middle of a port city and that’s a big plus.
His greatest joy in life was a warm stationary lap, so he approved of long TV shows. He had one remarkable skill; on those occasions when I didn’t want a lap-cat, I’d reject his advances. He’d go into stealth mode and ooze in so smoothly that I wouldn’t even notice he was on my lap till I couldn’t get my hand on the mouse-pad.
If I were irritated about the oozing-in, I’d tickle him, and if I tickled him too much, he’d stab me. I guess you call this a relationship.
A couple months ago he was OK at his regular vet checkup. A week ago he was fine. Then he was poorly, and suddenly his abdomen was grossly swollen; after a night in hospital, the ultrasound revealed the cancer all over the place, everything all blocked up.
We racked up a couple thousand in vet bills in his last 48 hours; I give thanks for living in a civilized country with socialized medicine for humans.
He only had a very few really bad days. He had a lot of really good ones, lots of laps and not that many tickles.