Jack

This is the last picture of my boy Jack. It was taken during the ice storm less than 2 weeks ago. He was still doing good then - he'd started his new round of antibiotics and was pretty perky. He took a turn very quickly.

He was the coolest cat ever. He never messed where he shouldn't. He never asked for anything that he didn't need. He never got underfoot. He never meowed incessantly. The worst thing about him was that he was a puker - from the moment I met him, he was a puker. That aside, he was an utterly perfect cat. A true Zen kitty if ever there was one. I'd had him for 3 years; he was probably 13-14. He'd lived at least 7 lives by the time he got to me and I saw him through his last two. He was a fighter for sure, even though he was a tiny guy.

He died on Thursday the 12th. While most people fear Friday the 13th, for me it's always been Thursday the 12th. I broke my leg on Thursday the 12th. I took a racket to the head and had 12 stitches over my eye on Thursday the 12th. My mother got hit by a stupid girl who ran a red light on...you guessed it, Thursday the 12th. And, so, it came as little surprise that my beloved Jack died on Thursday the 12th. Little surprise, too, that I had been suffering one of my worst migraines ever that same day (something I share with my mother - bad things happen when migraines are involved).

Here I am, 3 days later, and I'm still looking for him at different places in the house. I caught myself calling Max Jack and Lilly Jack. I'm sure I'll call the dog Jack, too, before long. I buried him beneath the Norwegian Pine in the backyard and, without realizing it, I can see it from every window in the house. I keep apologizing to him that I couldn't do more to fix the problem. Like I can fix Lymphoma. Poor guy. He was the best cat ever.

Jack. Jacket. Jackie. Jackie Doo. Jacket Man.