Sironimous Flasheronimous Oedipus Altered, R.I.P.

The handsomest kitten
Originally uploaded by Ruzich/Johnson

Our cat Flash died last week. I've been away from the computer for much of the last week so I haven't had a chance to post until now, but if any cat is deserving of a memorial post, it is Flash.

Flash was, originally, D-Jo's cat. He was born at her apartment (on the night of one of the bigget parties she'd ever thrown) seventeen years ago. So when I met D-Jo, she already had Flash (and his mama, Willa). He very graciously welcomed me, and never once peed in my shoes.

Flash was a great cat. In his younger days, he would battle our dog for sunlight, with the two of them tracking the sunshine across the living room floor, until Flash got sick of competing with Lula and would drive her away.

Flash was definitely the king of the house. Both our dogs knew that any time they spent on the couch was predicated on Flash not wanting to lay there, and if he did, they better move. Even as he got older, he could make the dogs (even our 90-lb. Doberman) slink away and claim the prime couch real estate.

He had slowed down in recent years, but even a month ago I found myself marvelling that a 17-year old cat could look so good, especially when you consider that, nearly a decade ago, he was diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a thickening of the heart wall that was eventually going to kill him. It didn't (kidney failure did, quietly an without a long decline), and when his eyes started to get cloudy a few years ago we were amazed that he had managed to live long enough to get cataracts, considering the vet's warning that he could "go at any time."

For a decade, I gave him medication daily, and often I had to chase him through the house to do it because he wasn't stupid, and he knew that when I was looking for him before bed it wasn't to pet him. In fact, it was a few days after he died that the finality of it hit me as I got ready to give him his pills, only to realize I no longer had to keep that on my going-to-bed checklist.

We miss him already and we'll continue to miss him as time goes by. Our three-year-old doesn't really understand the concept of death -- we told her that he died, and that that means he's gone, and she asked "where did he go," and we didn't have an answer for that -- but I think she misses him as well.

So long, Flash. I hope there's a plate of turkey and a bowl of leftover milk from Daryl's cereal waiting for you wherever you are.