On Saturday, January 11th 2014, around 10:30 PM, My cat was put down in a little animal hospital in Cheshire, CT. His name was Toast and he was the best, funniest, most loving cat you will ever meet. He loved shoes and fuzzoodles and having the base of his tail scratched. He lived almost seven years. He only ever liked one other cat, who died about five years back. My best friend, Alyssa, she always disliked animals. (I’m talking scream-hysterically- every- time-you-see-a-dog dislike) and Toast was the only cat she ever really liked, and we cried together when she heard.

If you’re wondering why we named this cat Toast, I will tell you his story.

When Toast was just about two months old, he was fighting with the rest of the litter which were his siblings. The litter consisted of Lil-Bit, Goliath, Toast, Alice (the Mother), and three or four other kittens of which we didn’t name. They were all fighting over a slice of lunch meat ham. Toast decided he’d had enough ham and went to sit next to the stove where it was toasty warm because my mother was boiling water. My mother, not noticing the two month old kitten next to her, lifted the lid off the pot where very hot water was boiling and had condensed onto the lid. Scalding hot water poured off the lid and onto Toast, right between the shoulder blades. Surprised by the sudden burn, the small puff of black fur jumped up and bucked around the small kitchen, yelping while everyone stared in shock. So we called him Toast because he was burned and black like a piece of burnt toast.

Alyssa had this joke where she would call me or I would call her and we would talk for a little while and she would just randomly say, “Hey, guess what? I ate your cat for breakfast.” Or “Your cat is so yummy” or just something stupid but funny but it never got old.

I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately because I’m used to him snuggling my feet and sounding like a motorcycle and being fat and lazy on the back of the couch when I walk by to go brush my teeth but he’s not there anymore.