This morning we woke to find that Mars, one of our cats, had died in his sleep. He was curled up in a box where he often slept. His eyes were closed and he appeared calm, as if he passed in his sleep. He was sixteen, with kidney issues, so his passing wasn't a surprise, although he had been healthy (much healthier than his blind twin sister) until just a few months ago. He was sixteen.

My wife adopted Mars (and his sister, Cleo) when they were kittens just as she and I met. Mars was part of our family as my wife and I first lived together, young and broke, then got married. Mars rode with us on a six week tour of America in an RV. He moved with us to Wisconsin eleven years ago. He was one of us. Mars was jet black until the day he died, the kind of cat who watched you very closely and took care of his smaller sister. He was a guardian. Mars and Shadow, our dog, started as mortal enemies but grew to tolerate each other over time. Just this past week they slept next to each other on the ottoman.

Mars, like most cats, was largely independent but hung out in the shadows and loved to sit on the couch armrests where you could pet him but where he could also make a quick getaway. He loved to sit on windowsills and watch the birds but he wasn't too keen on going outside. The basement was his true playground. When I took laundry down the stairs he would often appear out nowhere happy with his mouse hunt.

Last night he sat on my lap and purred while I watched tv. I glad I had that last chance to be with him, and I'm glad he passed in his sleep. He was a good cat.

I will miss you, Mars. Tonight I will raise a glass in your honor.

There has to be an afterlife. There has to be.