In memory of Sylvia the cat

October 2012: Sylvia curled up with me on the sofa. 

Fall 2009: Contemplative Sylvia in her cat bed.

I'm so upset.  This morning, Sylvia succumbed to her kidney and liver diseases.  Her absence leaves a huge void, as I could not have adopted a sweeter, more good-natured cat.  Actually, she chose me just as much at the shelter in 2008.  Upon meeting me, she meowed happily, jumped into my lap, and purred with the strength of 10 cats.  To this day, that's still the best example I've ever seen of anyone saying, "Pick me!"  Thus began over 11 wonderful years of cat companionship.

Frequently, when I'd attempt to get up from the sofa, Sylvia would try to prevent me from leaving.  Even with her eyes closed, she'd stretch a paw out across me as if to say, "You're staying right here!" Similarly, when I'd try to read a book or newspaper, she'd often sit down on me until her paws were on my neck and she was looking right in my eyes.  She'd then do at least one nose touch with me to convince me to stay.  I didn't mind holding my reading material off to the side because I knew she was happy.

Four days ago, Sylvia walked into my home office and jumped onto my lap.  I cradled her in my arms and told her how much she means to me; I told her how lucky we were to have found each other, how we're a great team, and reminisced about memorable things she'd done over the years.  As I looked into her eyes, saw the serene expression on her face, and heard that same lion-like purr I'd first heard in 2008, I knew she understood--and agreed with me.

Sylvia and I had a wonderful simpatico bond.  That's why I love her, miss her, and will never forget her.

Watchcat protocol DCCCLXIX (In memory of Simon the cat)

Even when your guardians are about to move and your guard post is surrounded by odds and ends, a good watchcat perseveres and keeps guarding his assigned sector:

1989: Watchcat Simon makes a place for himself on the mat.

Sadly, an era of my family's cats ended on this day 20 years ago.  June 13, 2001 was Watchcat Simon's last day on Earth.  We'd lost his brother, Watchcat Rusty, six months earlier and were unprepared for Simon's health to deteriorate so quickly.

Often, it's not easy being second.  Rusty, who joined the family in August 1983, was generally outgoing, talkative, and playful, while Simon, who joined us in June 1987, was typically quiet, shy, and serious.  I've always thought of Simon as the most introverted of all the cats we've had and the one whom life intimidated most.  I often thought, not unkindly, that the "Schoolhouse Rock" song, "The Tale Of Mr. Morton," could have applied, with altered lyrics, to him.  (i.e.  "Mr. Simon is the subject of the sentence, and when the predicate's said, he runs.")

As a fellow introvert, however, I got along well with him.  I felt honored to be one of the very few people he trusted.  He enjoyed it when I carried him around the house, much like my longtime cat, Sylvia.  In his early years, he alerted us eagerly with a quick "Meow, meow" before jumping in our laps.

Despite his mostly reserved ways, Watchcat Simon summoned the fortitude to assume guard duty.  Once he got his bearings, he kept watch over three houses where we lived over the years and particularly over one former neighbor, whose lawn mowing fascinated him.

Simon's cat brother, Rusty, and he were a study in contrasts, but they coexisted and carried out their watchcat duties well.