I am 17 years old, and I am afraid of the dark. At night when I turn a corner i still flick on the lights to stave off imagined demons or supposed eyes in the night. But when I saw your green eyes quietly moving through my house, I followed you. From room to room we went, lingering in each entrance. You struggled to get up the stairs. And though I was still afraid of the dark, I didn't turn on the lights. I trusted you. You decided on my sister's room, and laid on your favorite blanket. I moved my hand along your weathered fur. 18 and a half years, but tonight, Christmas Eve, would be your last. I caressed your head as a tear left my face. The next day as you laid subdued on that blanket, I held my hand on your heart. It beat slower at first, and then you were gone. Your name was Monty, and you were a good cat.