Dorian

Dorian Gray was my first cat. Adopted when I married my wonderful wife and his loving mother Liz Carbone. I was never much of a cat person – didn’t dislike them so much, but didn’t find much *to like* about them – but Dorian and his brothers were our kitties, and he was exceptional. He warmed my heart over not because he was “like a dog” as most dog lovers often say about cats they have any affection for. In fact, he in many ways wasn’t even the best cat. He had the stinkiest radioactive poops I have ever experienced which he would periodically leave behind in places of his choosing. He had unwarranted aggression for his brothers, Jimmy Page in particular, leading to an almost daily deluge of cat punches and ear bites. And he was the biggest food thief I have ever met, willing to commit breaking and entering crimes in order to get access to his favorite prizes: butter, vegetable oil, and cheese. It was these things, combined with some more adorable quirks in his behavior, which gave him personality and made him unique. His vow of silence broken only by occasional gremlin-like cat noises was funny and endearing. His love hate relationship with Jimmy made for an endless source of Snapchats and illustrated portraits. And his nuzzling, head bumping love for his mom, which was only shown periodically on inexplicable whims, also made him a special and great cat. A cat I will always remember, and a cat I will honestly miss. You were a great little angry guy, Dorian Gray, and you died too soon. I am only happy we caught your illness in time to prepare for it some and put you to your final rest before you became too uncomfortable with life. I can only hope our future cats, and Jimmy and Robert’s future brothers, will be just a little bit like you. Except for the atomic turds perhaps.

RIP little buddy. 

Love always, dad.