He finally died, that stupid cat. Died over a week ago, in fact, but I didn’t bother mentioning it in writing until now, now that I actually give a damn. And I give a damn now because something quite disturbing caught my attention late last night.

He wasn’t that old. He was only ten years old, in fact. He was the equivalent of fifty or so in human years. When others are only just leaving their prime, he was hacking away and wheezing and writhing in pain. Like a man of ninety with a brain tumor, not fifty.

And that’s not just it. My cat, my precious, precocious polydactyl is soon to be entering her fifth year. She’s half way to the point that that old thing was. I can’t see my darling neko, Niko, doing anything even similar to struggling for air – I can’t see her not hiding in a corner waiting for some unsuspecting human or cowardly dog to walk past her, just for her to jump out (Oh, that moment – She lives for that moment) and dig her claws or teeth half-assed into surprised skin. I can’t see her not scurrying away in amusement when someone comes back to scold her for attacking their leg or scaring that lily-livered old dumb dog that never sees it coming.

But most of all, I can’t not see her… Changing. With me. Ever since I got her when I was a preteen I’ve noticed her personality changing with mine, like the mannerisms I unwillingly picked up from my father. When I first got her, I was full of hate and anger and resentment. And she would really try to kill those dogs. Then my father and brother started loosing their tempers and beating me when I talked too much, and to my horror I stopped talking as much as I did. Those two dogs ganged up and tried to kill Niko, covered her with slobber and roughed up her fur. She in return stopped trying to kill them. I learned I was wrong, sometimes, and altered my fights accordingly. I gained a more apathetic sense of humor, and Niko started hunting the dogs again, but only for fun.

That stupid old cat never had a life as full as Niko’s has been up to date and he lived twice as long. He merely lazed about and that still managed to take it’s toll. In his last year he half-lived in such pain that I can’t see how anyone could have been too sad to see him go, even the people who actually liked him.

I didn’t like him. But I learned from him. Or, rather, I acknowledged because of him. I acknowledge that life really is short and erratic and unfair and full of pain and suffering. I learned that when you’ve hit rock bottom, and there’s nowhere to go but up… It doesn’t mean you’ll go up. I acknowledge that life is precious because it can, and always does, end.

And it is for that reason that even though I didn’t like him, I thank him. And I hope that wherever he is, depending on which human belief, which he was never bothered with, is right, whether he is merely rotting in the ground or floating on a cloud somewhere, no matter where he is – I wish that he no longer suffers. Thank you for teaching me, you dead bastard. Thank you for being what I always claimed and will continue to claim you were.

A stupid, frail, depressing, and worthless reminder of a cat. And yet, despite being all that, you still managed to change a life. The knowledge that no matter how badly my plans may go awry, no matter how low I may sink, no matter how worthless I may end up when I wanted to be as big as J. K. Rowling – Even if I end up being as worthless as that old cat, I’ll know that I’m still worth something to someone.

You just don’t get that kind of hope from the people you really admire.