Tom the cat died yesterday. The heat, his advanced age, and his off-the-charts hyperthyroidism got the better of him. His last few days were miserable. He now rests under a huge white impatiens plant in the flower bed where he spent most of his last summer days and nights, curled up on the wood chips in the shade.
He was a noble beast, huge in his prime, with a lion's big head and powerful shoulders. In his youth he was impetuous, taking on fights that always left him with wounds in his flanks, which some might see as evidence of cowardice, but that I saw as proof of his innate common sense. When he was outnumbered or outgunned, he ran.
He was never a great hunter, leaving that chore, as do his big cat cousins, to his sister. He guarded the perimeter of our house, fending off marauding visitors from across the street in endless stare-downs and with an inch-by-inch plan of attack that wore them down. At times he was more like a dog, wanting to be with people, following them around and begging for love. And he was more accepting than his sister when we took in a stray during a -30 degree spell one January. He was happy to ignore the interloper as long as the gravy train was still running in his direction. Until his last months, when his voice failed him, he had a loud croak that sounded like a cross between a Siamese and a crow. It was unmistakable.
He was a great cat who gave us 16 years of cat loyalty. In a species not known for this, at least among dog lovers, that's really something.
