What the @#$%ing cat taught me.

That was what I called her on good days.

I used the past tense because we put our oldest feline down last week. She was wasting away, thirteen years old and on her final legs. Time to go.

It was strictly my wife's cat. The animal never had any use for me. N-E-V-E-R. From the time the wife brought her home and she took one look at me and ran away, the tone of our relation to one another was set. Who knows why? I'm not much for cats, they've always been the wife's thing.

Anyway for thirteen years I'd get growled at, hissed at, spat at. I cheerfully returned the sentiment by scaring the bejayzus out of "Speedy" when I could. Towards the end we tolerated one another, I figured it was the least she could finally do for the guy who'd emptied her litter box every day for over a decade, took her to the vet when necessary, moved the entire entertainment center TWICE when the stupid animal got herself trapped behind it (our cats aren't too bright for some reason).

So down she went last Thursday, we immediately got another cat so the impact on the kids would be minimal. They came home, saw the new (and more sociable) addition to the family, wept briefly over their pet's death and now have us listing "Speedy" amongst our intentions every night when we all pray the rosary. Nope, it doesn't jibe with Catholic beliefs. For animals you can bet dead is dead. But my children don't need to grow up that fast.

Yet it's funny, I honestly miss the little pain in the ass. Go figure.

I guess I learned you can care for someone/something even when they despise you.

Even a stinking cat.