Imbas didn’t make it. The very had warned me that he might re-block or that his kidneys might have been damaged from the prior blockage, but when I left for work Wednesday morning, he seemed to be doing better. I was worried about a possible relapse, but I woke to his paws batting at my hair and was encouraged, because he hadn’t felt well enough to play in days. He seemed to be responding well to the prednisone, and it finally looked like he might be all right. I stayed late at work, because Eric hadn’t scheduled anyone to cover the floor between when I left and when Jesse came in. When I got home, he had obviously been dead for a while, because rigor had set in and everything. I buried him at dawn with his favorite catnip toy, in the woods behind my grandparents’ house. This year, there will be dried shrimp, his favorite treat, on my altar for the Day of the Dead. Where he’s gone, the plates of salt fish are unattended and waiting for him, and there’s no need to restrain him from getting outside. Rest in peace, little prankster.