Our beloved cat, Rosy, died Tuesday night. He had been with us for fourteen years, coming to us as a full-grown adult shortly after we moved into the house where we live now, so we don’t know how old he was. Rosy was a member of the family, the most sensitive and loving cat I’ve ever known, but also the toughest. He could walk among closely spaced perfume bottles or orchid plants without ever touching them, jump more than 6 feet in the air to get to the upper shelf of the closet where he liked to sleep, purr like a machine almost 24 hours a day, wake me in the morning with a gentle tap of his paw on my face, stand his ground against a 40-pound raccoon, and love and be loved by everyone he came in contact with, whether human or animal.
We’ve spent the last two days crying for his loss, but are thankful that he’s now released from whatever pain he suffered for the past two weeks. We knew that he was ready to move on, and we had to respect his decision. This Thanksgiving I’m grateful that I had the privilege of knowing Rosy for so many years and experiencing a unique type of feather-light and unconditional love.