Yesterday morning, in the warm shade of our rose tree, we bade farewell to our beautiful beloved cat Harry. He died peacefully in my arms as a soft breeze blew, surrounded by the garden and the local wildlife that inhabit our hill. Harry was very nearly 17 years old (95+ in people years), and he was in great health for most of the time. In the last year, it was revealed to us that he had renal failure, two kinds of cancer, and an enlarged heart. We managed the best we could, and had it all under control for awhile, but ultimately it was his heart ailment that took him. We knew it was time when he could no longer walk, or even swallow water properly. Harry was not a brave cat, but he was a trooper in the face of his medication and feeding schedule. At the end I was administering his meals to him via syringe. He was sweet, sensitive, attentive, perky, playful, smart, soulful, empathetic and a constant companion to me as a work-at-home illustrator--always by my side. Wherever I went in the house, he was quietly there beside me. He slept under the covers with me at night, and would pick at the coverlet until I would raise it for him to come snuggle. I cherished quiet times with him purring happily, the both of us safe in our mutual devotion. My husband and I didn't have children, so our cats fill that niche, and we have spoiled them with unremitting love.

When his galloping heart was finally calmed yesterday, a tiny miracle --a flock of little birds alighted in the rose tree and sang for us. Interpret it as you may, but to me it was a sign that Harry's bright shining little spirit was sailing aloft, freed from his failed body, escorted by the little feathery choir. He really was one in a million, and my fondest wish is to meet him again, sometime, somewhere.