Sparky the Crawfish, you’ll be sad to know, is dead.

Sparky had a good life. At least I think he (or she) did. No, I don’t know how old he was. No, I don’t know where he was born. I don’t, in fact, know anything about his (or her) early days or anything prior to the time he showed up in my daughter’s science class last spring. Sparky was duly studied and then sent home to one lucky (and I use the term “lucky” loosely) child’s house to live.

So Sparky stayed with us in his tank, ate frozen bloodworms, and went into attack mode (see picture which is not, in fact, Sparky) whenever we tapped on the glass. He was a quiet pet. Not a lot of trouble. Never ran away. Was never eaten by the cats, for which we are grateful.

Last night, I presided over Sparky’s funeral and his, ah, burial (*COUGH*) and prayed that God would find a special cat-free place in heaven for a nice crawfish like Sparky.

Only two more days until Monday …

Versace, we all noticed, had been spending a lot of time on the litter box.

Too much time.

Grumbling about the 1001 other things on my to-do list, but knowing that urinary tract infections can be serious problems for neutered males, I grudgingly took him to the vet. She said it was a digestive problem and prescribed some medication. I took Versace back home in the baby blue carrier that matched his eyes, certain that he’d be back to his old self by the end of the week.

The medicine didn’t work.

With a growing sense of alarm, I drove him to the emergency vet, who took an X-ray. The films showed bad things, the kind you don’t want to see in your three year-old cat. The only possible solution was a difficult and drastic surgery that wasn’t guaranteed to address the problem. Other vets were called, including the local expert. All agreed there were no good answers.

And then there was Versace’s sudden, unexplained weight loss, 3 pounds in the last month. A huge teddy bear of a cat who weighs sixteen pounds has a little weight to lose, but 3 pounds was nearly twenty percent of his entire body weight.

Twenty percent, gone. In less than a month.

The writing on the wall became clear, even to me.

I took him back home and told the kids. Broke their little hearts. We spent a last night loving him and remembering. In the morning I returned him to the vet, where the lovely tech said that I’d brought Versace back so we could give him his wings, and I lost it.

His ending was relaxed and peaceful, with me petting him and telling him what a wonderful cat he’d been and him purring.

Here’s what we miss about Versace:

• His laid-back, even keel disposition;
• His lengthy, expressive, high-pitched meows;
• The way he opened doors by jumping up on his hind legs and pressing the door with his front paws;
• The way he always tried to sneak into the bedroom, where cats aren’t allowed;
• The unconditional love he gave us.

Here’s that poem again, the one my father sent us earlier in the year when we gave Hobbes his wings. This time it’s for Versace:

More than fifteen years ago, after the last final of the fall semester of my second year of law school, I went to the SPCA to pick out a cat. I wanted a pet and I figured it would be my reward for studying my behind off during exams. When I got there, though, I was sorely disappointed to discover only one scrawny kitten, the sole remainder from his litter. He meowed at me, and then went about the business of playing. I watched him dubiously, certain he was defective in some invisible yet crucial aspect. Why else would he be the only kitten left?

Still, I wanted a cat, and he was a cat, so I took him home with me and named him Hobbes, after the stuffed animal turned tiger in the hilarious comic strip, Calvin & Hobbes. And a beautiful friendship was born.

He trained me right away. Hopping into the bathtub and meowing at the faucet meant I was supposed to turn the tap on and give him a little drink. Meowing at a door meant I was supposed to open the door for him. Peering around the corner at me meant I was supposed to play an impromptu game of hide and seek with him, and he was it.

Last week, this beautiful friendship came to an end. Hobbes had been battling diabetes, and it became clear that the diabetes was winning. So I took him to the vet and he died peacefully, in my hands. As deaths go, I suppose it doesn’t get any better.

I miss him. A lot. But I’m grateful I got to spend so many years with the world’s greatest cat. I’ll never forget Hobbes, of course. I’ve framed a picture of him and put it on my bookshelf, and my parents sent a sympathy card that’s brought me a lot of comfort: