except Simon has golden, not green, eyes.

"We" (and by "we," I mean "I," because the non-spouse partner refuses to claim ownership) currently house a 15-year-old feral who avoids human contact at all costs. Which I take to mean, she'll live much longer than my previous two -- both highly affectionate if quirky -- who only made it to 13 and 14, respectively.

Regardless, it's always wrenching to lose them, especially when you're in charge of the decision. But you did the right thing by her. She knows it, and hopefully eventually you'll find comfort in that, too. 22 years is a true gift, despite the hurt.

Still so sad over it. It was not quite three weeks ago now. It was my dear buddy, Inky. Originally my oldest step-daughter's cat, she stayed with my wife and I after the step-daughter left the house. She had adopted me, particularly. Broke my heart to lose her. She went downhill quickly, too.

To make matters worse, just a few hours ago, my wife informed me (I'm on the road, at work and far from home) that she had to have our tortoiseshell, Callie, put down. Callie was her cat. Naturally, we're both devastated over this most recent loss. Really bad that I wasn't home to help.

The saddest part is that our one remaining cat - our blue cat, Holly - is now wandering the house, looking for her friend. Holly is the youngest of our three. All were rescues of one form or another. It's going to be tough for all of us.

The loss of our black cat is the toughest. Black cats are something special. I guess you know this.