Sadly, it is time to report the passing of our beloved family member, friend, guardian, and king, Professor Kelp. He was as fine an animal and companion as I have ever known, and I have been blessed with a streak of exceptional pets.
Kelp left us last Monday, following several weeks of rapid decline. The diabetes became unmanageable, after he had been administered insulin shots twice daily for four and a half years. Donna and I never viewed the regimen as an inconvenience. He was worth every second and breath and purr and then some.
His kind doctor remarked at the end that Kelp had had a good home, longevity, and times, "not bad for being thrown out of a car."
She remembered the anecdote, which I wrote about in "Mother and Father's Little Kelper," when kitten Kelp literally plopped our way from the clutches of an evil Cruella De Vil.
One chance moment became three lucky days, collectively, and six happy decades.
Kelp was a perfect cat. He was polite, considerate, and mannered, which sounds insane, yet it is true.
Donna and Kelp, they were complete together. I've said it before, but I witnessed one of the great loves nurtured between them. Subsequently, my devotion grew stronger for each (although I would occasionally grumble about being the "stunt husband").
Our loss is infinite. Even when you see it coming, you don't see it coming. These farewells do not get easier -- and there's beauty in that. Kelp overcame odds, mastered life, and he meant something.
Kelp. Twenty years and three months. It's not enough.
Next: "Kelp the Lionhearted"
