The end could not have been less regal. Stripped of his health, this once powerful king drew his last breath, alone, without the comforting presence of consoling witnesses, outside the reach of those that loved him or those that served him. Taken by an unseen and unknown enemy, this sleek warrior slipped from this life, not on the battlefield, but in a sterile sanctuary meant for the aged and infirmed. In the end his fierce roar was not heard, and his once imposing majesty held no sway on the Black Hand that pulled him from this life.
He reigned, in this life, a short, thirteen years. But those thirteen years were enough to spawn his legend. Those that loved him, will miss him, but it’s his growing legend that all will remember.
As I walk the lonely corridors of his abode—left empty by his passing—it’s impossible to miss the signs of his life as I move from room to room. I find myself conversing with him, out of habit, even though I know he’s gone. What an imprint he made on me during his life, and I didn’t even realize it until he was gone.
Have I mourned him? I’d be lying if I said no. Would you call him a king? If you had known him in life, you’d be hard-pressed to deny him his status as the king of his kind.
King Spaz, cat of all cats, good-bye.
