Drake passed away today at the vet’s, after a short struggle with a bug that wouldn’t let go and, they believe, the beginnings of cancer in his lungs.
He was a good cat. Not a smart cat, not a graceful or subtle cat, but a loving cat and a good, big, sharp cat.
When we brought him home, all of half a pound, he looked at our older cat – Gatsby, already four years old and a grown up – and hissed at him. All balls, that cat, even after we finally had him fixed.
He once won an intimidation challenge against a house-guest – Drake insisted it was his chair, and the guest relented and picked another seat. 16 lbs at his heaviest, 12 lbs only when he wasn’t feeling well, Drake was a flesh-eater with a well-deserved violent reputation. More than one of our friends bears scars from learning the hard way that Drake should not be fucked with.
He was, at home, an affectionate cat, a lap cat, demanding in his affection (he liked to rest his head on my mouse hand so I had to pay attention to him). He liked to sleep under the blankets, but unlike his brother, who predeceased him in 2010, he couldn’t stand to have his face under the blankets.
He was never good at fetch, but he sure liked to try (He was good at the “get,” but not so good at the “bring it all the way back”). Like all cats, his favorite toys were things like the seal on milk containers, or a balled-up piece of paper (this caused trouble when starting a fire in the fireplace sometimes).
I could go on forever. We had him for eleven years, and it was not nearly long enough. I will miss my Draker for a very, very long time. I keep picturing picking him up and squishing him to me, the way I did when I was upset. But I’m upset now, and I can’t hug him.
Bear with me for a few days? I may be a bit rawer than normal
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