Our cat Charlie died this morning. He had been sick last night, but he’s such a fighter, such a strong-willed cat that we didn’t think to take him in. He died at home, a home where everyone loved him.
We adopted Charlie almost eight years ago. Mike and I had just moved together and along with all the purchases and new home needs, we brought home a cat. Mike went into the adoption shelter and asked for the best cat they had. The staff pointed out to a year-old-cat who was named Chocolate, but he immediately became Charlie and instantly became ours.
He was more human than cat sometimes, a wicked intelligence and a stubborn territorial streak. He loved his spot on the bed and wanted to be tucked in like he was a child. When we moved from an apartment to this house, we didn’t worry about him. He was tough and smart and figured out his new surroundings quickly. He had an orange tabby for a girlfriend. He had his spot on our balcony where he would spend the warmer days. He had the whole house for himself when it was colder.
He was a member of our family who loved us unconditionally. He was always a fine cat, even when we were marginal people. Next week, we will receive a cherrywood box with his ashes inside and a little brass frame that will read, “Charlie: Rest in Peace.”