Despite the differences you and I had in your early years, you were a wonderful pet. Aside from your obvious beauty you were, in these last years, a faithful and constant companion in Dad's office. While you weren't much of a cuddler, you would race to make sure you were inside a bedroom door before it closed for the night and would take up residence on whichever bed you made it to. Mostly so you could scratch to be let out at 3 a.m. You loved to be around, but just out of the fray. When we were in the family room, you would sit in the doorway to the living room. And watch us. You did not tolerate fools, or at least what you considered foolish. You endured cat fights (bravely protecting your yard), a broken leg (hysterically thump-thumping around the house on your cast. Well, we were hysterical.), porcupine quills, and other animal attacks (I think the cone was something you considered foolish and did not suffer it well). You were never much for playing with toys, but when the grand-kitten came to stay with little mice and noisy things to chase, you gave it a try. It was fun for us to see you, at your advanced age, grab a little bit of kitten like joy.
The quality that made you the perfect pet for me was your complete indifference to anything mine. You ignored yarn, fiber, fabric, my spinning wheel, all of it. I could leave it all out, all of the time and never worry. It's too bad you didn't teach that to the grand-kitten. It is a new world around here.
You were the quietest cat I've ever known, never making a sound when you wanted anything. You wanted to be fed? You sat by your bowl. You wanted to go out? You sat looking at the door. So, this week when you started following me everywhere and making a noise that I think was supposed to be a "meow", I knew you were trying to tell me something very important. I heard. You've used up all your lives.