You don't understand. PJ was a Titan. PJ stared down the barrel of a gun and never flinched. He rescued children from burning vehicles and led entire caravans of refugees to safety. PJ questioned authority and incited revolutions. PJ swallowed violence and poverty and coughed up sparklers and ragtime music. PJ knew tricks, and performed them when he felt like it. He was devilishly handsome. He played the piano. PJ would purr moments before you would even touch him, he loved you that much. He loved me. He was a Yankee cat, betrayed by Southern hospitality. He would greet you every single time you stepped through the front-door, it was the one sure thing.
So today was the first day in 18 years that PJ didn't greet me when I came home. It's strange. It's different, mourning a pet that you grew up with when you no longer lived with them full-time. You've already grown accustomed to long chunks of time without them, and then one day those long chunks of time become forever. (Will he visit me in my dreams the way his mother does?) PJ, you were a better cat than I am a human, and that's not really too surprising, because you were a very, very good cat. I will miss you.