On Sunday evening, when we called the cats in, Spork did not come home. This was nothing new, we decided to let him stay out a while longer. At about 2 am, I tried to call him in again, but still, he did not come home. We went to bed, deciding he'd be alright out for the night.
On Monday, when we failed to hear his loud squeaky greeting at all, all day, I decided to go and look for him.
Late Monday afternoon, I found Spork, lying in the grass by the side of the main road beyond our house. He had been hit on his way home and passed away from his injuries - we think he died instantly and without suffering.
Spork was fifteen months old, to the day.
He had fifteen months of driving us nuts, playing, squeaking, adventuring and being loved thoroughly and without question. He had a good life and he will be forever missed.
Today, we buried him in the garden. I plan to make a plaque to put on the wall over his burial plot and we are going to plant flowers over him.
I will never forget the joy he brought to us every day of his life, from the first moments of his life, to the last. I only regret that we couldn't spend fifteen years together, but the fifteen months he was with us were unforgettable, and we were so happy he was a part of our lives.
Spork. We will miss you.