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.