Three people will be sad. Everyone else will just be all, "Yup."

So, I kinda don't know how to say this, so I'll just come out with it.

Rocket, the famed deceptively cuddly yet certainly face-rippy and forever-living Maine Coon cat beast of our house is no more.

You woke me? I WILL MURDER YOU TWICE.

 Her reign is over and she can no longer stand between Jada and her dog food or Jada and the dog door or Jada and her dog bed.

Even during her final days, when she was such a rickety deranged hairball that she'd spend solid hours staring at the wall behind her food bowl without eating - not eating, just staring - she'd summon all of her two wits to make sure to inflict her dominance over the sweet patient dog at every turn.

Where am I? Hopefully in your way, dog.

And let's not forget about the ankle-slapping-until-you-gave-her-the-cereal-bowl thing.

The sweet patient dog who, no matter the encouragement by certain Mes and Bubbas, never went after the always taunting cat.

We all tried cuddling with Rocket throughout her many hundreds of years (18) of looking beautiful and fluffy and oh look how cute her fluffy feet are with the elfin toe furs and we all came away with bloody stumps.

Yes. Come closer to my toes. That's always worked out so well for you.

At one point she got a whiff of Nair (stop your judging - I was in college)(the first time I went to college - my undergrad - not the college I just went through)(just to be clear - I was young) and went on a wall shredding rampage through my college apartment during which time she broke a framed poster of pretty doors (shut up), launched herself off of the front of the fish tank which totally splashed and then finally landed, snorting like a wild hog, on the wicker chair that I eventually abandoned at Google approximately 10 years later.

OK, so that whole Life of Chair wasn't necessary, but still. The cat was fucking crazy.

You forgot we were talking about a cat, didn't you?

Anyway, yes - Rocket finally went off into the night and she didn't do so quietly (bit my hand at the vet) or gracefully (rickety as a backwoods Arkansas footbridge), but at least I finally got to pet her fuzzy elfin feet without getting my face torn off.

Which I realize makes this sort of a morbid post, but come on, you know you would have done it, too. THEY'RE SO FUZZY.

The one time I didn't come away with a flesh wound.

Bye, Punk Rocket.