My mom used to read Lewis Grizzard, who was a humorist from Atlanta who was popular during the 1980s. I remember seeing his books on our bookshelves and one was called “Elvis is Dead and I Don’t Feel So Good Myself.” I dunno why the title resonated with me as a kid, but I often think of it when someone I liked or loved has passed.

Biz passed suddenly this yesterday morning. I was sleeping in (I was up late doing video editing work, with Biz actually lounging on my computer tower enjoying the warm exhaust) at the time when I heard what sounded like a growl from his cat treadwheel. My partner, who had been working in the living room, ran in and saw Biz collapsed on the wheel. His breathing stopped, his pupils dilated, and his body was limp. The little guy was gone. According to my partner, Biz had been surprisingly lively that morning. He had eaten a few treats, sunbathed, cuddled with my partner, and even playfully batted at Cary. He then proceeded to get on his treadwheel (something he had been too tired to do as of late) and start trotting. It seemed like he was gonna have a good day. Then, within an instant, he made a noise and then departed this world.

We believe he likely had a sudden heart attack, but it could be anything. He had FIV since we adopted him. He had so many health issues, but damn, he was such a little trooper who never held a grudge when we had to take him to frequent visits to the vet. However, the melanoma was growing so rapidly in his tiny body and the tumors were becoming so big and prone to injury that he was spending most of his time in a soft collar to prevent him from scratching them. It was so hard to see him complain from not being able to itch himself. It was only a couple of days ago that he got the collar off and ended up scratching himself so badly in the night that he and our wall were both covered in blood. My partner and I knew that we didn’t want any creature in our care to suffer, however, despite the complaining about the collar from time to time, he overall seemed okay, particularly when taken for his nearly daily long walks where he marched up to strangers and charmed them. We wanted his eventual passing to be peaceful and free of pain and we agonized over when to make the call to give him that. Instead, he seemingly decided to make that choice for us.

Mourning is strange. It’s a mixture of sorrow, relief, gratitude, numbness, and a million what-ifs. My partner and I mourned Biz for months before his passing. When we found out about his rare cancer and that it would likely spread fast, we wept on and off for days. We vowed to make his last months the best. I hoped he would make it to see Spring one last time and go on the leashed walks he loved so much. He did, and I can confirm how much he loved his time in the sunshine. That was such a blessing and I realize how lucky we were that we had that knowledge, as sad as it was at the time.

Biz was my first cat that I adopted as an adult. He was a little ball of personality and spirit and I am so grateful to the people who took him out of that shelter and brought him to our city. Our time together was briefer compared to other cats I’ve had in my life, but goodness, it was rich. He symbolized grit and survival to me, not just his own, but mine as well. When I adopted Biz, I had finally achieved financial security so that my partner and I could move into a larger, pet friendly place. We saw this little one eyed, FIV positive orange tabby who made it despite the odds against him on a local rescue site. He was a tiny, scruffy thing that marched right up to us when we arrived at his foster’s apartment. When we took him to our sparsely decorated new place, he immediately made himself at home. He seemed fearless. I knew he was the one.

He always will be the one. I had always wanted a cat who was a friend to all and he was that to a T. He charmed everyone he marched up to. Most people in our building knew Mr. Business. People in our neighborhood knew that silly, one eyed guy. Biz made our lives richer just because he made us meet our neighbors, which is nearly impossible in a big city and even harder when your caretakers are somewhat introverted.

I miss him, probably always. I’ll miss his little tantrums when he wanted to play or go outside. I’ll miss his snuggles. I’ll miss kissing his little spot over his stitched shut, empty eye socket (which I know sounds gross when I type it out). I’ll miss how excited he got when it was time to go on his walks. My family and I lost our cat Shiro well over two decades ago and we still talk about him often. Shiro was one in a million and Biz joins him as a fellow one in a million-er. My life may seem a little less bright now that he’s gone, but I know it will always brighten back when I remember the thousands of moments I spent with him. Phones might be awful, but I have so many wonderful clips and pictures of him thanks to that device.

I love you, Mr. Business. Thank you for being a part of our lives.

You know, I may feel a bit awful right now that he’s gone, but I know I’m gonna be okay.