Today would have been Willow’s fourteenth birthday, had not a combination of degenerative illness and my autism cut short her life before she turned thirteen. (No, don’t argue. That “some other, later now” never did come.) Likely this explains why she’s been popping up in my dreams, including twice last night. I’ve no guilt from when Scully, my first Portland cat, died. Her stunted highness died of old age. Willow, I will feel forever, died unnecessarily. Or, at least, without anything and everything first having been done to try to stop it. I’ve nothing else to say, really. You can browse some photos, although given the text of the photo descriptions come of them capture my other cat, Meru.