My Mum wrote yesterday:
...I remember the lovely naughty cat with attitude and that's all gone. He's just existing now....and my sister wrote:
...he's miserable and there's no reason for us to wait until he IS in pain to end his suffering. That's the good thing about not being a person.This is my favourite photo of Lucifer, from Christmas 2007; he's staring broodingly out of shot, like Brando in a '50s movie, and the picture makes it look like there's a lot more going on inside his head than I suspect there ever actually was. :-) But such a pretty boy...
My most potent memory of him isn't from personal experience, thankfully: it's the report I got from my sister some years back, in which she explained that he'd figured out how to open the freezer door. Or, more precisely, how to open the freezer door, throw up in the freezer, and then shut the door again, leaving her a charming surprise for the next morning. At this point, I felt compelled — as I do now, in fact — to point out that I always said she should have named him "Gabriel", and that going with "Lucifer" was just asking for trouble. :-)
Farewell, dear sweet naughty funny dumb lovely boy. I'm glad you're not suffering any longer, but I'll miss you.
Edit: Mum spoke this afternoon with my sister's boyfriend, who was there with my sister to hold L. at the end: "...he told me Lucifer died with the tip of his tongue sticking out, a favorite sleeping position. A small consolation..." I'll take the small consolation and hope that it really was just like going to sleep for him.