Several weeks ago Minky, our black cat, died, and it's still hard to talk about it.
She held on to life more than any pet I've ever had. Twenty-two years old, she'd already had a good, long life. Over the past year she had become thinner and thinner, had stopped grooming herself, and overall resembled a small moth-eaten rug. Deaf but not blind, she could still tell by the scent alone when we were cooking chicken (her favorite) and would come to beg for some, and would eat a good portion if we gave it to her. Of course we always did. She was a strong-willed but sweet cat. I miss her.