Fred and his sister Lucy were born in the hills above Mill Valley, CA. They were the only survivors of a mountain lion attacked that killed their mother and the rest of her litter. This, I always believed, was what made Fred so shy, often scared, but always loving.

When I first saw Fred, he and his sister were still being fed from an eye dropper. Too small for adoption, my wife and I returned four weeks later to take both cats home. Fred and I bonded almost immediately. Perhaps it was his eyes that captivated me the most. They would become a lens through which I would see my better self. Fred loved being outdoors, but lacked the athleticism to climb trees, jump fences, or, thankfully, kill birds. This kept him close to home, usually in the garden enjoying the sun, hiding among the plants, and chasing lizards. He loved toys and balls, fetching them as if a dog. Sister Lucy, a stupendous acrobat, couldn’t compete with Fred’s extraordinary hand-eye coordination. Impossible to imagine, Fred once dragged a golf club (my driver!) out of an upstairs bedroom, down the stairs and into the living room, having grabbed the head cover in his mouth. He always made a cute, garbled sound when depositing a toy by my feet, as if to announce his arrival and solicit my congratulations.

As Fred got older he spent less time outdoors, preferring to stay by my side. He worked with me during the day, often on top of my desk; sat on the piano bench while I played (and frequently played himself, banging the keys with his head and paws), and sat nearby when I exercised or did yoga (he was expert at the shavasana pose). Fred became my constant companion, on top of my lap or chest whenever possible. Wherever I went, Fred followed. It sounds crazy, but Freddie and I seemed to read each other’s minds. Our pact was obvious: If I kept Fred safe, he would follow me to the end of the earth. So whenever danger seemed imminent, Fred would look at me with his beautiful eyes trusting that I would protect him. And I always did. That is, until the end. Moments before he was euthanized due to incurable heart and kidney failure, Fred looked at me plaintively as if to say, “Please get me out of here.” But this time I could protect him only from the suffering and pain he would surely have experienced otherwise.

Truly, Fred’s final months were some of his very best. My wife and I knew that his health was likely to deteriorate sooner or later. We just didn’t know when. So we agreed to cherish every moment we had with Fred, taking nothing he did for granted. We were present for Fred like never before, to which he responded with love, beauty and grace. Though his passing could not have hurt more, that hurt is the smallest price to have paid for the rich rewards that Freddie gave us from the moment we met him—gifts that will continue to grow for years to come.