Poor Preshose

My Mom emailed last night and told me that her 17-year-old cat died on Monday. Awww. Now, technically, her cat's name was Portia, but because my younger sister and I have never met a name we didn't mutilate into some bizarre nickname, we called her De Preshose. And it's too bad I can't record sound on here, because there's a very particular way you pronounce that. In fact, we knew my older sister's husband was a keeper when he finally came around to saying "Preshose" the correct way. But Preshose was one of those cats that had a lot of...personality. She was...edgy. Frankly, I don't think she ever really liked me, but she and Mom got along, so that's what was important. And I'm pretty sure she viewed the world as a place full of danger, fright and moral depravity. Thus, she never ran away because she knew she had it pretty good where she was. So, in that way, she was pretty smart. Here's a picture:


Mom said that Preshose passed away quietly without any pain or drama. And I like to think she died happily...knowing I was almost a hundred miles away. Heh.