Remembering Simon the cat

When I first saw Simon, he just sat quietly and watched me walk past. We met a short while later, and he strode over, climbed onto my lap, and promptly flopped onto his back to have his tummy rubbed.

Simon immediately salved the recent loss of my second cat. My first cat, who had seemed to be moping, too, appeared to welcome his arrival as well. Simon also kept me company years later when my first cat reached the end of a long and well-loved life.

His habits were more endearing than not. After a scratchy game of Paw the Human, for example, Simon would stretch out full length with his back against me, wrap his front legs around my arm and pull it to him, then fall asleep with his head tucked down into the crook of my elbow. Nutball cat. I've never known another like him.

Simon's own time came last week, sooner than I hoped, although I knew the end was near. We were together and at home, for which I am deeply grateful. No pet's life should end alone in pain and fear.

I still tell Simon where I'm going, that I will be back, and that I love him. I speak the familiar phrases quietly with a lump in my throat. After 20 years of feline company, the Simon-shaped impression on my heart just hasn't cooled enough to leave all of the old, familiar habits behind.