The fact that he lived at all was something of an affront to death.
He was three months old when he came to live with us and he could fit in my cupped hands. I could have tucked him down inside my sneaker.
He was always a petite sized kitty, although maybe that was just in comparison to his goliath of a best friend.
His unique walk was described as monkey-like because of the deformity of his rear legs. He ran, he climbed, he dragged away countless items because they got stuck on his foot or to his claw. He would engage in fierce battles with a cat twice his size and just when you thought he was being too picked on, things would settle down for a while until, out of the blue, he'd fly onto the unsuspecting fat cat and proceed to whomp him right back.
Originally named Mein Linker Fuss, he became Me, Gimpy, Monserat and Dammit! by turns.
He was neurotic and compulsive, a grumpy old man from the start. Of course he fit right in.
He lived. And he was loved. His time may have been shorter than average, but how long is a life that cheats death at the start?
I don't even want to say "rest in peace", as I suspect his spirit legs are long and strong and resting will be the last thing on his mine. But I am now sitting in a coffee shop crying, so I guess that's pretty awesome.