When I decided to get a kitten all those years ago, I kind of had an orange kitten in mind. But when I reached into the kitten cage at the shelter to pet the one orange kitten, it backed up and hissed at me. Then a scrap of an 8-week-old black-and-white kitten climbed up my arm, sat down on my shoulder, stuck his nose in my ear, and purred like a chainsaw. I was chosen.
I named him Alexander the Great because it took him about a week to conquer the Known World, i.e. my house and everything in it, including the senior cat.
He’s been my sweet boykitty for 17 years, which is a good long life for a cat. But old age is inexorable, and I wouldn’t want him to live longer if it meant being in pain.
Ave atque vale, Alexander. You were a CAT.