R.I.P.

    Well, I just got done burying my cat, Boris. He was nineteen and a half. Our neighbor's father made a nice box for him and the girls drew all over it. He's been in all of our houses. He did tricks and he knew some phrases. My favorite one that I could tell him was "fuck off", and he would. Didn't have to say it any louder than anything else or wave my arm or nothing. He would just turn around and walk out of the room. Before he went deaf, you could whisper his name in the middle of the night and wherever he was, he would come to see you. Boris was a great cat, he was my little pal, and I will miss the shit out of him.

Last pic of my pal, Boris.

(yes, he was alive in that picture)

Friday the Thirteenth

   Man, my old cat is dying. This time I think it's for real. He's been at the edge probably four or five times. You know, those times where the wife is having a serious discussion about putting him down. Those discussions have come up over the past five years and the little bastard always snaps back. He's nineteen and a half now. I really don't think he's coming out of this one. In the past month or so, he still managed to let our two new cats (who are Kruger'd up on all fours) know who the boss is. You gotta love a nineteen-year-old completely de-clawed cat that has sufficiently laid down the law where the two young bucks sneak around him out of fear. Kudos to you, Boris.
   I think this is it this time, though. Past times I have said no to the thought of putting him down. He always comes back. He even survived the big pet food recall/massacre. This time is different.  I feel it. He's at the end. I am a sad fucking panda. Boris is my little bro. Very very cool cat. Did tricks. Very cool. Sucks.