Happy is the old man of our Armada of Cats™ — he’s thirteen, and of our cats, he’s one of my favorites. His name fits him perfectly — he’s outgoing, pleasant, and just generally great to have around. The only issue with Happy is his age.
He’s starting to slow down. Sleeping more, playing less. Getting a little skinny through the hips. Takes the stairs a little slowly. And it’s really sad to see–he’s like the Dude’s rug of our house: he ties the room together.
When he does go, Kate and I will both be wrecks. Yes, we’ll be a little closer to a reasonable number of felines, but still. The house won’t be the same without our little guy who’s there at the door to greet us (and new people, too), he won’t be that warm blob on our ankles at night, he won’t be there to beg Kate for dairy products (and if there’s a cat that knows the sound of Kraft American cheese being opened, it’s him). Yeah, it all sounds like small things, but you know it’s part of that routine built around him, part of the life built with him as part of it.
It’s all the little things that someone does that you miss the most when they’re gone. And when he’s gone, those little things are going to leave a very large hole.