Elvis, the iconic cat of Surly Knitter, has passed away today. Not quite 9.
He'd had asthma for a few years now, and I knew he wouldn't last the full spread of years given to most cats, but I always expected he'd live a bit longer that this. He died at home, and I do feel guilty about it. I believe, based on the position of his body and the fact that Yoda, his brother, was untraumatized, that his heart just...gave out. So some comfort, that he didn't drown in his own fluids. It was quick. I hope.
Elvis was a valiant cat. His hatred of veterinarians never abated, leading to not one, not two, but three Red Spots of Evil being affixed to his record. They never bothered save once, in the last three years, to try and examine him conscious. They just gassed him insensible and handled him that way. Oddly, I'm vaguely proud of that. He never, ever, ever lost his fighting spirit.
And it was a fighting spirit indeed. He never seemed to like me much unless I had a cup of food or a brush in my hands, but I will miss him. I will keep him as the face of Surly Knitter. Moreso than anyone or anything else I know, he embodied the true sense of the word 'individual' -- no one, but no one told him who to be. He told us all who he was and we just had to put up with it. In the past few months he had taken to getting up on my bed in the mornings, purring and making biscuits on my feet, allowing me to pet him. I hope that means he was happier there, toward the end. I hope I made his life a little bit...well, if not completely happy with sunshine and buttercups, at least a little better.
I love him and will miss him. He's left a chunky, cranky, wheezy, slightly sweet hole in my heart. I've already lost one big piece this year, I'm hoping no more pot shots get taken anytime soon.