final catblogging friday

Evander (pic here) adopted me in Portland in 1998.  Only weeks later, he had the last ear-shredding fight that made his name, and once we'd patched him up he seemed content to retire.  I blogged about him here, with several pics, in 2005.

He moved with me to San Francisco in 2003 and Vancouver in 2006, and finally, through his own gruff charm, seduced a loving Buddhist friend into taking him in.

It seemed that he had always been old.  Visitors would say at first sight "oh!  he's so -- old!" and with him it was an endearment.  For a decade I expected that he'd die at any moment, but also sensed that he had so perfected the art of being old that he could do it pretty much forever.  He never seemed to be aging, just resting in a lofty old age as though it were a throne.

He passed away in Vancouver last week, surrounded by people who would not have met without him.  I believe he was 26.

Comments

[Peter]

When I buried my sixteen-year-old cat, I felt as if I were saying goodbye to good chunk of my past. My condolences.

I love that last paragraph.

[teresa Gilman]

You've done it again, Jarrett. I'm weeping conspicuously in this quiet nearly deserted library. The women behind the desk look concerned, but they know I write, so they've not come over to see if I'm all right.

Thanks.

Teresa