Ralphie was the best cat.

Ralphie was an old cat. Which is to say he was an expert. He survived New England winters, an angry cardinal in Brooklyn, and a drive across the country to his final home in Austin. He knew where the warm squares of sunlight would land before they landed there. He knew when it was time to nap and when it was time to remind the household that dinner was late, according to the cat calendar, which tends to run fast. 

Ralphie died, as all creatures do, having completed his assignment.

His assignment was not complicated: Love your mom the most. He did this with professionalism. He followed her from room to room like a thoughtful comma. He sat beside her when she was quiet and would climb onto her when she wasn’t. He understood, more than any of us, that she is the center of things. The gravity well of our family. He made sure she never forgot it.

Ralphie showed affection for his dad and sister in a slightly different dialect of love. With his dad, Ralph showed love through his presence. He’d sit nearby and watch sports. Basketball was his favorite, listening intently to the squeaks and whistles that accompanied ten seasons. He accepted food, care, and routine without suspicion, which for a cat is a serious compliment.

With his sister, Poppy, his love was gentle and patient. He didn’t play with her, but he tolerated her, which was a form of generosity. He cleaned her, shared meals with her, and let her sit near him. He lived in a way that told her, You belong here too. For Ralphie, that was love.

He was a good boy. For a pet this is a moral distinction more important than it sounds. Being good does not require great deeds, but it does require holding your post. Ralphie held his every day, even when his joints hurt and the once-easy jumps into bed were no longer possible. He held it in his deep purrs, in his watchful stillness, in the way he occupied a room without asking anything of it. This is how a lot of love works, if you think about it.

Ralphie was a good boy and now he is gone, which feels rude of the universe, though the universe has always had questionable manners. Basketball games are a lonelier affair, and the house is quieter in a way that can’t be fixed by putting on a record. There is a hole in the shape of a grumpy orange cat.

And yet, here is the hopeful part, nothing Ralphie gave was taken away. The affection is still there. His songs are still sung. The habits remain. The love he practiced was learned by those he lived with. 

That is how small, furry creatures cheat time.

Ralphie was an old cat. He did his job. The rest of us are still working on ours.