From the best I can tell, the only reason a girl turns thirty-five is so the cat she’s had since college can pass away. It’s happened to too many friends of mine this year, and now I guess it’s my turn.
Taylor was a fighter until the end, living what would appear to be a very, very long time (sixteen years!) for a cat who needed twice daily insulin injections for over five years (in addition to his struggles with acne, anxiety, and OCD.). He was a lover of Pounce, carpet-munching, tuna juice, laser pointers, and not much else. He hated wind, singing, parties, people, and Radiohead. While he was a popular guest host on pamie.com, he mostly spent his days attempting to tolerate Cal. He had perfected his webcam face, his sexy pose and his “get away from me” face.
I will miss his French-Canadian frustration, his need to watch me shower, his insatiable desire for Chinese food shrimp, and how he always came to my side when I was crying. And I appreciate how you guys had him in your lives. I had completely forgotten he used to have an advice column on pamie.com. And how — so many, many years ago! — when this site was first named “Squishy,” it was because that was one of his nicknames.
The place seems bigger and odd without him. Mornings will never be the same. Writing at my computer feels like I’m missing a vital part of the process without him bumping his fuzzy forehead against my shin. For thirteen years he came to the front door every time I walked through it. I know he wasn’t the nicest cat to most who met him, but the curmudgeons would all bond with him. For everyone else, there’s Cal.
Taylor was a very good, very silly, wonderful kitty made of thirteen triangles and lots of hate. I will miss him every day.