Griffin: July 17, 1995--November 6, 2009

My cat Griffin died this morning. He was fourteen years old. This photo was taken by me on Halloween. Griffin had, of late, settled himself on my shoulder just as he did here. I had my camera with me because I was expecting my best friend, Liz, and her family and I wanted photos of the kids in their costumes.


Despite all the guilt I feel (should I have taken him to the vet yet again?) and the remorse that he did not live to see fifteen, I know that what remains with me is the memory of this creature who drove me crazy, who woke me up in the middle of the night for food or for no reason at all, who jumped on top of the fridge when my sister and I moved into our house, who clawed his way through couches and pillows and even a pair or two of blue jeans. He had a purr like you wouldn't believe and never shied away from anyone who would give him a good back rub. I used to call him a "man whore."

I would get a little jealous if he sat on Carolyn's lap or when he rolled onto his back for Ranae or Liz or even his "daddy," Brent. He was mine! I know everything about him. I know his entire medical history. I know his likes and dislikes. He loved peppermint; used to go nuts over the stuff. He liked to be the center of attention, even if that attention meant getting his nails cut.

Over the summer, he started having issues. He had stopped eating. In a panic, I took him to the vet ER and he was, after tests and tests, diagnosed with inflammatory bowel disease. He was on medication and a special diet. My sister theorizes that this made him "old" all of a sudden. In the past couple of weeks, he had slowed down so much.

I went downstairs this morning and found Griffin lying on the floor in a daze. He was barely breathing. I tried to rouse him and took him upstairs to my sister's room. He died on her bed shortly thereafter. Carolyn, Sabine, and I all said goodbye. He was my special little guy. My Stud Muffin. My Griffiemeister. I'm gonna miss hearing his mews.