We said goodbye to our beloved Grimoire yesterday. He was 17 1/2, a venerable age for a cat, and it was his time. He’s young and healthy and purring again now.

He joins his mother, Eostre, and his siblings, Eclipse and Snowdon. Eostre was a stray with a broken leg who showed up when we lived in Wales; nobody, not even the vets during multiple surgeries, realized she was pregnant. We came home from a trip to find a note from our cat sitter that said in part, “Watch where you step.” I still have that note.

Grimoire was the last of his line. He had extra toes and a little notch in his right ear, the result of a kittenhood tussle with his brother. He loved food, laps (and there was a hierarchy to them—he would stomp over people to get to his favorite, and if you didn’t make space for him, he’d sit next to you and tap you on the arm until you did), scritchies, and, for a time, fetching paper.

He’ll always be my baby boy, purring in my heart.