Toughy (or Tuffy) was 14 years old.
My parents thought he would grow to be at least 17 or 18, like most of their felines, or around 23, like their previous cat, Funny Face, who doubled as Toughy's friend — especially since Toughy fully deserved his name. (He loved nothing better than a being stroked fast'n'hard — back'n'forth, in both directions, the length of his body — like some kind of Oriental massage.)
My folks, who could be described as old-timers, have been having health problems for the past year.
My father went to a clinic last week and it was discovered that he thankfully had no (skin) cancer.
My mother also visited the doctor's this week and it was discovered that she had no (stomach) cancer either.
Toughy, who seemed in perfect health only two weeks ago, suddenly stopped eating, and would only lap up the juice of her cat food, incapable of swallowing the hard stuff.
Yesterday they took Toughy to the vet's where he spent the night.
After being scanned today, it was discovered that he had five tumors throughout his body, and there was nothing to be done.
And so he was put to sleep this morning.
Call me silly if you want, or superstitious, but doesn't it seem that, in some manner, deliberately or otherwise, consciously or not, Toughy took on the diseases of the masters whom he loved (and who loved him in return) and sacrificed his life for them?
