My sweet, funny ol' cat Charlie died last week. He had been missing for a week, and we finally found his cold lifeless body curled up under the neighbors' fence. He didn't look like he'd been injured - just like he'd gone to sleep and never woke up.
I had originally found him in the parking lot of the apartment where I used to live. Or should I say -- he found me!
I had been determined not to have any cats in this apartment. But he just kept running up the stairs with me every evening when I came home from work, sleeping on the doormat outside and greeting me with a friendly "meow" in the morning. And one day it was pouring down rain, and I just couldn't stand to leave him outside, so ... voila! I had been adopted!
I named "Charlie" because he always reminded me of a seedy poker player, like Uncle Charlie in "My Three Sons". All he needed was a fedora and a cigar to complete the image. And he went back to the parking lot every night, to hang out with his poker buddies and chase chicks. Even after I had him fixed, he still couldn't resist going through the motions.
He had a lot of fun out there. And I think his heart was broken when we moved to a house with a yard. He seemed to enjoy it at first, but I think he missed his poker buddies, and couldn't deal with the tranquility of the suburbs after the noise and excitement of the big city. So sometime last week, he just crawled under the neighbors' fence, went to sleep, and never woke up.
I hope he was having happy dreams about the life he enjoyed, and the happy life he gave me. Goodbye, Charlie.
