When I bought a house in Portland, seven years ago, he came with the house. "Evander," the previous owners had called him, after the boxer Evander Holyfield -- which dates him already. Evander ruled his neighborhood with a twitch of his well-shredded ears. He was surer of his authority than any cat I've ever met. He didn't bluster, as my younger cat often does. He didn't actually fight much; he didn't seem to need to. And when he decided he wanted into the house, I let him in.
A neighbor there remembered him being around in the early 1980s, which would make him well over 20 now. He's moved with me twice, and each time, he's given up more control, retreated to a smaller circle of concern.
In this last, most wrenching move, from San Francisco to Vancouver, he stayed calm, the master of his pet-carrier, while my younger cat went catatonic with terror. Today, Evander cares what happens within a radius of barely a foot. But there, don't mess with him.
Happy catblogging Friday, Evander. Thanks for sticking with me.