"God kept His promise—Petey didn’t die in a flood. Michael Franks’ song Tiger in the Rain comes to mind—a tiger afraid of lightning, seeking comfort from humans. For Petey, the lightning was neurological, striking his brain on Friday, and again last night.

Petey, our tiger in the rain. Our only boy cat. He wasn’t especially heroic, but he faced down his final days with as much courage as he could muster.

Petey, the boy cat we feared might spray in the house because boy cats sometimes do, even after neutering. He might not have been a hero, but he certainly wasn’t a villain—he never did spray.

Let’s remember Petey’s true powers:

To me, he was irresistibly handsome. His adoption was a rare miscommunication between Pat and me in our 32+ years together. Pat had just lost her beloved Lucy, a 13-year-old calico, only a week after our first cat Toonces passed. I thought Pat wanted another cat quickly to fill the "potato in her heart," as she called it, so I pushed for Petey. I later realized that Pat needed more time like she had when choosing Lucy, but she quietly went along when we visited the shelter a week after Lucy's death.

Petey looked depressed but strikingly gorgeous in his cage. The shelter volunteer explained that his previous owner had moved and left him, and after eight months in the shelter, he had "shut down." He had a dark gray coat with a white triangle down his nose, a tuxedo chest, and snow-white paws. He enchanted me immediately, though Pat seemed unsure.

The volunteer warned us that Petey was a bit feisty but even offered to come over and trim his nails for us. I was sold. Pat, still unsure, went along quietly.

Petey was listed as 10 years old, but when we signed him out, the chart revealed he was 13. We’d always adopted older cats because no one else wanted them, but 13 felt like a stretch even for us.

When we got him home, he swiped, bit, and yowled whenever we tried to touch him. It wasn’t until our vet removed many of his rotten teeth that his pain subsided and his crankiness lessened—though he still bit us occasionally when the mood struck.

Petey didn’t reserve his dominance just for us. He bullied our other elderly cat, Phoebe, chasing her around the house. We told ourselves it was karma for Phoebe, who had once chased and bullied her littermate, Toonces. Petey ruled the roost until two years ago when Sammi arrived after Phoebe’s death. From that point on, Sammi enacted karma on Petey in turn.

Several months ago, our vet found a mass in Petey’s liver and diagnosed heart issues. Around that time, Petey started cozying up to us like never before. He would come to bed early in the morning, lay his front paws on my shoulder, and drape himself across my side, purring as we petted him.

On Friday, while patrolling the kitchen, he suddenly stopped to one side, and the brain lightning struck, flipping him over multiple times. On Sunday night, as he lay in bed with us, the lightning came again. He flipped catastrophically once, fell off the bed, then flipped two more times before retreating to the closet, looking for all the world like Michael Franks’ Tiger in the Rain.

The vet suspected a brain tumor and assured us that euthanasia was the kindest choice. We made that difficult decision this afternoon.

In the end, Pat chose to hold Petey as the vet administered the injection. He had finally charmed both of us. Our Prince Charming. Now, Princess Sammi assumes the throne. Long live Sammi, please, God.

I’m grateful to the Voices of the South Writers' Cabaret for giving me a space tonight to "transform grief by writing," as fellow writer Keegon put it. These reflections started as a 25-minute prompt titled “Start or end your story with a hero losing their powers.”

– Sarah Siegel & Patricia Hewitt