Hemingway said, “All stories, if continued long enough, end in death.” I don’t know who said, “All love ends in death,” but it has to, doesn’t it? Sooner or later.
Pat, the silvery one, left in September. Pete, the long stretched out one, a few days ago. Something ate them. Quickly no doubt. A fast end to a good life. It could have been longer for both of them, but 7 and 8 perfect years, respectively, were better than 14 or 16 behind glass, looking out and missing out. I had them longer than I thought I would, especially Pete. He loved a good midnight hunt, taking his chances with the other animals that hunt at night. The red fox and coyote, great-horneds and bobcats, the infrequent mountain lion and bear. The price of living free. We wouldn’t have had it any other way, the pain now worth all the joy then.
That’s an interesting quote, seeing as though the protagonist died in all of Hemingway’s books.