On Valentine's Day, Mr. Whitey had his life taken away from him.
He was a great pussycat for two decades, and the last surviving link to my past. The last time I wrote about him was somewhere on my old blog, at www.ducksoup.me. As he got older, he was plagued by chronic Tummy Trouble (not the scientific term, obviously, but my brain has gotten even more scattered than normal these past couple of weeks) requiring almost daily medication. I had to work hard to keep him going these last few years.
But sometime between Sunday night and Monday noon, his left eye ruptured. I don't know the cause, but I do know that that eye was irritating him recently, and he might have scratched it. I got him to the vet immediately, but the doctor said that at his age and condition, Whitey would not likely survive the operation.
Whitey just wanted to get home and sit on his radiator in his favorite window. But the vet put him down right then and there.
Whitey was cheerful, good-natured, and one of the smartest pussycats I've ever known. He was my Best Pal. He was at least nineteen, maybe older -- and I knew in my heart that he would not likely survive the year.