Do what you love today: tomorrow might not come.

On Wednesday, I buried my closest friend. For five years, for twenty-four hours a day, Pyewacket was my constant companion. He sat with me while I worked, we played when I came home. He rested with Jennie and I at night, and he ate his meals when we ate. When we traveled – be it for an afternoon or a week – he always greeted us at the door.

Pye was loyal to Jennie and I. He was friendly to our visitors, and he helped us through our most difficult days. He was cheerful when weren't. He was kind to Jennie and me, when we were mad at one another. He kept his claws, and he kept our trust that he wouldn't use them. He was fastidiously clean and thrifty with his food and treats, never discourteously demanding more. He obeyed our commands. He bravely cornered unwanted vermin invaders. He sat quietly and contemplated nature as it played outside our windows.

Few cats exhibit the esteemed qualities of a good, ole hunting dog. Pyewacket was always exceptional.

I guess when you grow old with a pet, and you know that its time will come soon, you steel yourself against the inevitable loss. Expecting death makes accepting it easier. But Pye's death came suddenly and despite excellent health; I was unprepared, devastated and questioned the justness, the fairness. So while the wisdom of Nature, of life, and of death itself eludes my capability to comprehend it, I can lift a prayer of gratitude for the time I did have with Pyewacket.

And Pye's sudden passing reminds me that our time on this ground is brief, and that the quality of our character and of our relationships is our sole remnant when our life is, alas, snapped away.