My cat died. If you look at this story not from the perspective of current events, but from a philosophical standpoint, it's not so sad. She died at 19 from adenocarcinoma. I'm a single young man, and although I love cats, I never planned on getting one. But I periodically went to the cat shelter to help clean cages and feed them, and I fell in love. They told me she was two years old. I thought, wow, I'm going to have to live with her for a long time. Then, while I was away on a business trip, she developed an eye infection from the dust in her new, cramped cage. They took her to the vet, and he said that, judging by her teeth, she was about 15 years old. A week before I was supposed to take her, the cat's former owners showed up at the shelter and said she was 17 years old and had belonged to a relative, and after his death, she had become a burden to everyone and had been put out on the street. They said they would now think about whether to take her or not. The shelter said they'd give her to me, and that's how love came to be in my home. She was the most affectionate and grateful creature. She'd jump up to me as soon as I sat on the couch, purring just at the mere fact that I was in the room. She'd patiently wait on weekends until I'd had enough sleep so she could get fresh food, and she always wanted to snuggle into my lap. Because of her age, she slept a lot. She lived with me for two years, and then faded away. She refused to eat because she was in pain, and the doctors refused to operate because she was old and would have died from the anesthesia. I'd force pâté down her throat with a syringe so she'd have the strength to climb into my lap again. But nothing lasts forever. I have her veterinary passport, a certificate of honor from the shelter, a tuft of her fur with her scent, and the memory that after my death, someone is waiting for me there, on the other side of the rainbow.

They said she was two. They meant two years left.