Oh yes, it’s a dance they do, every day, these cats and dogs who live together. They are a pack, which is to say a family, and they love one another. Raebert is the leader somehow, which makes no sense but packs don’t have to make sense. What is he? The odd young’un who holds sway over all the oldsters, mostly twice his age. He cares the most. Odd is hardly the right word. I told my wife he understands everything I say. She took that with a grain of salt until last night or so when he was licking his leg and I said, that’s enough, stop licking and put your head down. Which he did. She stared at me and then at him.

Where were we? Raebert is upset at the loss of Cassie. He’s great at moaning and groaning on a good day. Now he’s almost lugubrious.

So young with so much on his shoulders.

So is Elliott. He’s the only surviving cat in the pack. Clinging wouldn’t be too strong a word for what he’s doing with me right now.

Last cat in the pack.

Rikki knows about death. We don’t want to vigil him. He’s a racehorse in the twilight. He keeps going because he’s a deer in the headlights and makes the headlights blink.

Rikki. Tikki. Tavi.

Muffy pretends she doesn’t care. She does.

Scotties are awful. Cute.

Eloise really doesn’t care. She’s the only one.

She can get out of that crate.

Death is the Omega. Life is the Pack.