Mr. Kitty’s candle burned out on April 18th, a minute past midnight, as he lay in our arms. We knew it was coming, but our hearts are no less broken. He was our best friend for more than a quarter of our lives.

He was unique. Soulful. Intelligent. Polite. Sweet. He had none of the stereotypical “cat” craziness, and he had the kindest soul. When he found a lizard or a bird trapped, he would just stare with wonder in his eyes, rather than go into “hunting mode.” But he loved to spar with me… we’d play-fight and wrestle for hours sometimes, and chase each other through the house… then switch to snuggles and purrs without pause. 

He would come to greet me at the door when I came home, and sit by the door after I left. He would always come out to greet us excitedly in the morning when we’d get up. He’d curl up on my luggage to keep me from leaving, and sometimes sit in front of the door looking up at me as if asking me to stay. He never knew fear or pain—and he loved everyone. But he also loved his family, even just being around us. He loved spending family time watching TV with all of us. He loved curling up in blanket forts between my legs as I wrote. The purrs and nuzzles and mrrples seemed infinite.

They weren’t.