Today is a strange, sad day. I’m sitting here working on this blog and waiting for my cat to die.

Cruiser (the black-and-white cat on the left) passed away several years ago. Now it’s Austen’s turn.

Austen (the beautiful, fluffy cat on the right) is at least eighteen years old (we adopted him as an adult thirteen years ago and don’t have a clue), and has been in failing health for several months. We’ve known that this was coming for a while. He’s had a good life: well-loved, well-fed, comfortable, and warm. The world was his friend. He loved everyone, and feared no one.

His quality of life has far exceeded that of the majority of cats, too many of whom meet early, frightening, and lonely ends. He’s just going to sleep, to wake up at Rainbow Bridge and be welcomed by his old friend Cruiser. So I’m not sad for him.

I’m sad for me.