Lola loved everyone. He was awkward and clumsy and a little weird, but he loved people. He also loved cats and a few dogs and maybe even some guinea pigs. Bedtime was his favorite. He took a shower first, in the bath tub, so he was always wet, and he came too close with his fur in your face, and he never knew where to step, but he purred - he constantly purred. Anytime I moved, he purred. When I opened my eyes there was Lola, purring. He was so happy to be a cat. Unlike his brother, who gets grumpy and bored and rude, Lola never did. He just sat around waiting for someone to love, and when there was no one in front of him, he waited. 

I did yoga, he waited.
I painted, he waited. 
I left, he waited.

I knew the end was coming. I talked about it with the vet in a normal voice. But then it did, and I cried for days. I miss him. When someone lives for love, and spends his life sitting around patiently waiting to love you, and then does it, unabashedly and generously and enthusiastically, over and over and over again, well, it makes you take stock. What, exactly, is more important than that?