Happy Hunting Grounds

When I called my parents today, my Mum told me they had to put the Beast to sleep yesterday, realizing they were not doing him (too weak to get up and to control his bladder) any favours by keeping him alive. This was the last picture I took of him when I was in KLU last month:

My Dad could not face burying him in the garden (like our last cat, A.) or even worse, having him end up in pet food, so had found out about a pet cremation service. The Beast's ashes will be scattered in the garden. His garden, which he was the undisputed king of.

The Beast, who from the very beginning was very much my Dad's cat, lived with my parents for 15 years. If I remember correctly, he actually was delivered a few days before Christmas December 1994 by a schoolfriend whose cat was the Beast's mother. He was born in September and so was a bit too young to be taken away from this mother already at the end of October as a 50th birthday present for my Dad. The two of them had a particularly symbiotic relationship and were inseparable, but everyone (unless they had a cat allergy) who met him was immediately wooed by his impressive purr and cuddliness.

I hope there are plently of sunny spots to enjoy his beauty sleep in Cat Heaven and many mice and birds to hunt.