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Scar the cat
Goodbye, my Scar.

No one ever officially designated me as a "crazy cat cartoonist" but there was a time, only a few of years ago, when I kept the company of at least eight cats, seven of whom were pitch black. These were my Horde, all fated to someday protect the world from the inevitable zombie legions.

Alas, they couldn't even save the world from Donald Fucking Trump or, at the very least, themselves as one-by-one they succumbed to a more varied assortment of ruination than I could have thought possible. Cancer, diabetes, dog attack, old age, they all took their toll. As of last week I was down to three cats. As of last night, only two remained as I lost another little hordite.

That cat was Scar, and he deserves a moment of celebration as he was a special one. He was whip-smart and a friend to all kitties, though a nightmare to any stray dog that eyed his food bowl. And if a cat could be said to have charisma then Scar most certainly had it as all moggies, especially the lady cats, strove to nap by his side.

In short, Scar was cool. He was the Sinatra of cats. Minus the mafia baggage, that is.

He arrived at my feeding station back in 2005, half-grown and hungry. I easily caught him in my humane trap but he fought so mightily to escape that he split his scalp open, thus the name "Scar". I soon had him neutered and then released him expecting never to see him again. But he stayed, knowing a sucker when he saw one.

He was doomed to be an outdoor cat all his life because, even though neutered, he marked his territory with all the ferocity of a firehose. But he was perfectly happy outside and whenever I'd spend a moment giving him a good scratch he'd gently grab one of my fingers and give it a soft chew in appreciation. Man I loved that.

Things began going wrong about two months ago when I noticed he'd lost weight and was growing noticeably weaker. The diagnosis was Feline Infectious Peritonitis which is almost always a death sentence.

Goddammit. Thirteen is too young for this shit.

Two weeks ago he'd become so weak that I brought him inside the house, made him a place of honor and allowed him to eat all he wanted. This past Sunday afternoon I left to do some quick shopping but when I returned I found him stretched out in front of the door, as if waiting patiently for me to come home so that he might share his last breath with the one who loved him. Which he promptly did.

I've seen cats die before and it's sometimes a traumatic experience, but Scar just relaxed and let life slip away. I wouldn't have expected anything else from him.

The photo you see here was taken four days before his death and, even so, he was still a handsome beast. Even sick and weak he was still the same happy cat he'd always been, the one who always seemed to say "Hey, man. No worries. It's all good."

In my back yard grows a large oak tree. Ringing it is a small circle of stones, each marking the spot of each of my cats' final places of rest. A fresh mound of earth, topped by a spray of dianthus, cradles Scar's remains but it's not just a grave. It's a door to another cosmii, one in which he's with all his friends again.

Run free, little guy.

(Sorry for all this weepy stuff. More politics soon.)


I am the Red Hen. I am Maxine Waters. I am Patricia Okoumou. I am Kristin Mink. I am Robert De Niro. I am David Hogg. I am Emma Gonzelez. I am Mike Avenetti. I am Stormy Daniels. I am Rachel Maddow. I am Pickaxe Guy. I am LeBron James. I am Robert Mueller. I am Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. I am Peter Strzok. I am Elizabeth Warren. I am Heather Heyer.  I am Beto O'Rourke. I am Andrew Gillum. I am Senator Sheldon Whitehouse. I am Botham Jean. I am Plaid Shirt Guy. I am Ronan Farrow. I am Christine Blasey Ford. I am Julie Swetnick. I am Deborah Ramirez. I am Colin Kaepernik. I am Taylor Swift. I am Kamala Harris. I am Ruth Bader Ginsberg. I am Stacy Abrams.

Fuck Trump.


end rant

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