Everything dies.
Even grey-striped alley cats.
Even ditsy, falling, slipping, sliding,
cross-eyed, eyowing, cuddle cats.
Even a scrawny flea-ridden kitten
who survived cat fever twice
and countless other catastrophes,
such as falling off fences,
and laps,
for five subsequent years,
but who, alas, developed a taste
for poisoned gophers.
Rover’s gone underground now.
You should have been immortal, you idiot cat.
You should have been immortal.
Maggie MacKeever, Novelist 
Goddamn cats! We do love them so.
Every last one of them.