On Wednesday, my cat Hamilton passed away, a handsome orange and red tabby with bright green eyes. He was...a totally unplanned addition to our household when we adopted him. We'd gone to the local shelter with the intention of adopting two kittens and instead, came home with the two kittens and Hamilton. Because he picked me out, swatting at my arm as I walked by, purring and meowing. Because he chose me. And for the next seven years we were lucky enough to have with him, he kept choosing me. Standing at the door, waiting for me to come home from work, occupying my lap. Opening the downstairs bathroom door (a trick he tried--and failed--to teach the other two cats) while I was in there.

Hamilton was between eight and ten years old when we adopted him, so he was between fifteen and seventeen when he passed. And the last month or so, it was really becoming obvious that his decline was beginning to accelerate. Late Tuesday night it looked like he'd had (or was having) a small stroke and we realized that he wasn't going to pass gently---that he was suffering, even if he himself was no longer aware of it. We made arrangements to let him pass painlessly at the vets, but when I woke up early Wednesday morning, he was gone.

I hope he knew how much I loved him. How much we all did. I've been crying off and on for the last few days, and I don't expect that to stop anytime soon. He wasn't the first companion animal I've lost---but every one leaves a hole in your heart that's exactly their shape.

A dear friend suddenly lost her orange tabby a few days before Hamilton passed; she says that she bets they're hanging out together in the sunlight, two old men, resting. And that's probably true. Hamilton was the least combative cat I've ever met, and I bet he'd share.

Until we meet again, my friend. <3