Some time over the weekend, Jimmy died. I only found out this evening. He was 18 — not bad for a cat. I'd known he wouldn't make it through the winter — I'd seen how fast he was growing thin — but the news still took me by surprise. This might have been his last evening; when I photographed this the thought never crossed my mind that he might have been living through the last hours of his life.
I looked for a photograph of him to post here, but that was a bad idea. This is better.
Jimmy and Ming were both here when I arrived, and now both have gone. Now the farm is without cats. Now I'm without cats. He wasn't mine, although I was probably his. We got on pretty well.
I miss him.
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