Rocky, named by his foster’s children for the colors of rocks in their backyard, was only 9. He was a great mouser, was terribly messy, ate like a horse, and meowed in sentences with a lovely, rich voice. The first people who adopted him returned him because he was a biter; and it took a long while of cat-whispering before he kept his fangs to himself. He never quit biting bubble wrap and the edge of the shower curtain. There was no box that he thought he couldn’t fit into. He rarely responded when called, but he came running at the word “fish,” though he loved chicken. He and the other cat, Zuma, were best friends — one-and-only friends, really, if you think about cat ways, although Rocky had eyes for Zelda, the outdoor cat next door. He passed from dilated cardiomyopathy a week after it was discovered on Labor Day 2018. I hope he hangs around here in spirit. It’s hard to be without him.