What’s new pussy-cat?

One of us has fallen. Mr. Wiggleman Fizz, The Coca-Cola Cat, Fizzy, Tiny Dancer, Mick Jagger. The Tiny Little Windy Man who loved chewing on plastic bags, chasing moths, and bringing home caterpillars, was too excited about life to look both ways and so sadly, passed away last night. Phrases like “cut down in the prime of his life” and “untimely demise” spring to mind, as do “squished guts” and “dead cat”. I knew from the moment his desire to be outside was greater than his fear of jumping out the window that it was only a matter of time.

The only positive thing you get from an experience like this is a small renewal of faith in humans. A complete stranger knocked on my door, hugged me and carried fizzy inside when it would have been easier to drive on and go home. Another complete stranger, who with tears in his eyes, explained that Fizzy had just run out in front of him, chose to stay and take responsibility for something I’m sure he would rather have pretended didn’t happen. Friends came ‘round and helped to dig his little grave. Other friends have cried and people who hardly knew him have said nice things. His Cuteness touched us all

I’m going to miss him that goes without saying. I loved that freakin’ cat so freakin’ much; anyone who knows me has been bored to the point of mindless drooling by my cat-anecdotes fueled by cat-love. This Saturday has been unofficially declared his wake, so we can all be silly and excited and chase bugs in memory of Fizzy.

I don’t believe in gods or souls or anything like that, so I guess all I can hope for Fizzy, The Good Mr. Wiggleman Fizz, is that science rots him well.