My cat, Lizard, died today. He was about 14 years old, or about 66 in cat years. He was hit by a car just in front of our house. The driver didn't even stop. Jake, the older of my two brothers, is angry about it. I was angry too. Then I was sad. I'm still sad but I'm trying to think about the positives. There are few.
Lizard was a mutt. My sister and I were really little when we started pestering our parents for a pet. One day Grandma came home with a grey kitten she had found from a man who discovered a stray giving birth under his woodpile. My parents wanted to call him Gus. I had seen too much Cinderella to let that happen, since Gus was the name of the mouse and you can't name a cat after a mouse. So I named him Lizard.
He had many nicknames. "Kitty-kitty" and "Puppy-cat" to name a few. He loved sleeping and lounging in inconvenient places. He was grey and had white socks, as you could probably tell from my many pictures of him. He was very picky as well and only ate one or two types of cat food. He loved to sit in a room with everyone when the TV was on, a "closet Walking Dead fan" we called him. And despite my allergies, I'd pet him whenever he hopped on the couch. He liked it behind the right ear.
He was my first pet. By the looks of things he'll be our last.
He was also the best.