to Wolfgang

You had more hair than you knew what to do with. I always thought we should have had you shaved like a poodle, but Mom said you'd be too embarrassed. Probably true. You were a wild hunter, more in touch with your roots (as a lion, I mean) than most cats. Yet you were terrified of ceiling fans and fireplaces! You loved the outdoors, sun-baked cement and the roof of Dad's car. You even rode to Ames on top of it once! You were a show-off, always dragging mice, rabbits, moles, voles, birds, and whatever else you could get your claws on back to our front step, where you would gnaw away proudly at the flesh of your prey. You had a frequent stain on the white fur around your mouth, like a kid who drinks too much Kool-Aid. You would let us squeeze you, snuggle you, suffocate you with affection for much longer than you probably wanted to. You remained regal and unaffected when your winter hair clumped together in dreadlocks, and then fell off leaving you with patchy bald spots all over your sides and static-y mohawk down your spine. You weren't very interested in silly cat-games, like chasing a string or stick or leaf--there is no blood inside a string, and a hunter must conserve his energy. You were so, so, so soft. And so sweet. You met Dad in the barn every morning and night to oversee the chores and keep him company. You were as grand as your name; independent, strong, and majestic.

And we will miss you terribly.