Okay, I know I am supposed to be blogging about my awesome London/Paris book tour, and all about The Painted Man and blah, blah, blah, but at the moment, I’m really not in the mood. You see, I just learned that Max Powers, beloved friend and kitten, has passed away. He wasn’t even three, and when I left for London, he was fine.

It’s interesting how even when things seem perfect, life has a way of reminding you that it is a fragile, precious thing. Like when you’re lost in your own problems crossing the street and almost get hit by a car, or the elevator jerks suddenly to a halt, or your plane starts to rattle at 36,000 feet.

Max spent most of his life hiding under the bed. He was never a pest except at feeding time, and always seemed terrified of anything and everything, even though no one had ever done anything but love him.

Well, actually, there was always one thing Max wasn’t afraid of: 

Recently, Max had finally started to come out of his shell. We were looking forward to watching him interact and grow with Cassandra, and to loving him for more than a decade to come. He was barely more than a kitten, and he will be missed sorely.  

I just wish I could have said goodbye.