The Gimpy One. On my lap.

The survivors are all depressed. The Big Guy’s the worst of all of us.

Droop, droop, droop.

When he’s not on Mommy’s lap, he’s demanding we all go to bed.

Good news? I’ve finally remembered Izzie’s theme song.

Why is it the right song? She just flung herself. At everything. A gifted athlete with no judgment whatsoever. She fell off counters, chair arms, and rafters. Got herself a black eye once visiting our feral Cassie in the garage. Fell from the roof beams. She started fights constantly with Mickey and Elliott, counting on her speed and agility — Sugar Ray Robinson-like — to see her through. But they doubled her weight and not once in any of these bouts did she ever win. Not. One. Single. Time.

She never cried in defeat. But she did yell her way through life. Loudest cat you can have that isn’t Siamese. When we carted her into the vet’s office in her carrier, they knew immediately she was a Bengal. Small consolation for us, who heard her yell continuously from home to vet and back home again. And when, in the mornings, the faucet wasn’t turned on for her to drink from.

We got her two Italian water fountains. What kind of seven pound person could make you do that? Izzie is short for Isis, the Egyptian goddess of life. She was that for us. From first to last she did it her way.

Small in stature, huge in mystery. Everyone is missing Izzie.