Last Thursday and Friday, March 31 and April 1, I wrote the story of Ken crawling under the barracks to get the cat.  I should have included a story from forty-six years later.

Ken was eighty four years old, and in the last week of his life.  He knew it; we knew it.  It was a bitter-sweet time.  He had lived a very full life.  We had loved each other for fifty-seven years.  But it was all over.  He couldn't fight any more.  Thank God I got to keep him at home--with Pat's help.

She and I would double-team taking care of him and on the last day of his life, Pat was watching him while I was in surgery.  Had I known the end was so near, I would have never left.  I would have rescheduled.  But we never know.  "Death comes like a thief in the night..."

When I got home, she told me what  the last coherent words were that he spoke.  He said, "Pat, I have a confession to make."

She couldn't help but worry about what he was going to say.  The way it was spoken made it sound like there was something that he wanted to get off his chest.

"I want to tell you something," he said.  And then he said, "I know you always loved cats."

And she answered, "Yes, daddy.  I love cats."  Pat had always had a cat.

"I hate cats."

Those were his last words.  He just wanted her to know how much he loved her to have tolerated all of his years living with a cat in the house.   He was such a great man.