When my cat turned 13 recently, I knew it was time for the dreaded "cat discussion." You know, the one where you tell them about the happy hunting ground in the sky. Since cats usually die before their owners do, it's tough for me to be the one to suggest that she be optimistic. I told her about cat heaven, where there would be unlimited bonito flake buffets and I told her about the extended family waiting for her, from little runts to lion king ancestors.
I told her that cat heaven is a place of endless feline felicity: large cushions to sleep on and robots who perform scratches behind the ears all day long. There would be tummy ticklers, yarn balls and purring choirs she could join. Surely there would be little spots of sunshine to relax in and flower beds to stretch out in.
On kitty cloud nine, there are no vacuum cleaners, no big loud trucks to run away from, and no road kill. She need not fear being reincarnated into a maneki neko cat, performing a lifetime of servitude. Nor is there Hello Kitty materialism: no being bought and sold as a commodity. No sirree, not in cat heaven.