At the peak of my family's pet ownership, we had four dogs, three cats, two birds, four fish, a crayfish, and a pocket gopher. I volunteered at the local humane society most of my teenage and adult life, and my dad was such a sucker for a heart wrenching story. My grandparents also had a farm, and I chased and tamed many a wild kitten in order to smuggle him or her home.

The last one I caught was Winston, a long haired, creamy white, Siamese looking kitty with ice blue eyes. He was sick when I caught him, but I figured he just needed shots and antibiotics. When my dad finally caved and let me keep him, we took him to the vet, who diagnosed him with a rare respiratory disease in which fluid fills his lungs, giving him 40% oxygen capacity. She told us that he wouldn't survive his first birthday. He was laid to rest last summer on a sunny hill overlooking the river just after his 14th birthday. That day was only the second time I've ever seen my dad cry.

He was never a normal cat; he played like a kitten until he died and he sniffled so loudly you could hear him from three rooms away. He was a lover and would cuddle on my lap for hours a day. When the puppies were born (Patrick's litter), he would lay in their nest and clean them all while Delilah (Patrick's mom) took a break. Winston was the only non-human allowed near her babies.