After 15 years, my lovely cat, Taylor, has passed away.

We had a bad feeling yesterday when we hadn't seen her all day. So we went looking for her, shouting and calling her name, until I found her.

She was laying in her normal way, back legs stretched out and front paws crossed over.  She wasn't injured, or sniffed at, just a little rained on.  She looked just like normal.

We buried her out back last night, while it was getting dark.  My other cat, Seven, was freaking out.  She knew we found Taylor, but didn't quite understand what we were doing with her.  As soon as we were done burying her, I stood by her grave while Seven came up and sniffed at it.  After a moment, she started to dig where we had put her, and I had to shoo her away.  Poor thing.

Anyway, now we only have Seven, and she's been hanging around the house more than normal.  I think she misses her crotchety old playmate who, although she hissed and smacked at Seven, would share a bed with her in the winter to keep them both warm, who would sit next to her in comfortable silence, who would be there when Seven needed another cat to be there.

I think the hardest thing for me is that it happened so suddenly.  I fully expected Taylor to be getting sick sometime soon.  But just the other day, she was acting perfectly normal.  She meowed and let me pet and scratch her and was even being playful.  It was just out of nowhere.  I'm still having a hard time accepting it.

I'm sorry to ramble.  I just wanted to post up something somewhere so that I can get this off my chest.

Thanks for reading, I guess.