Suspected to have been dead for years, Preston the Cat finally received the call yesterday. He stayed at my parents’ house for seventeen years, through the tenure of two horses, and outlived Priscilla the Cat, Winnie the Dog, and Hershey the Goat. Like his archenemy, His Own Tail, he never liked me much, but we were almost friendly during his last days. At the time of his death, I only have one Preston-inflicted wound requiring a band-aid.
He is survived by Cindy (his initial owner), Moms (couldn’t care less about a cat), Jack (his primary caretaker who affectionately referred to him as “Worthless Furball”), myself, Push Broom, and his best friend Basket of ‘Tatas. His scowl, tail-hating neurosis, and intermittent but incessant knocking on the door will be missed.