The cat Carlton "Carl" Chapman died approximately at 10:28pm on the night of Friday, August the 14th, 2009 of a combination of distemper, trauma to the hip, emaciation/starvation, and somehow being covered in a collection of his own waste.
He was born sometime during the spring of 1996 or 97, meaning that he was aged in the neighborhood of thirteen years old. Fitting coincidence, seeing as how Mr. Carl was a fully black maine coon cat. The week prior to his death he had gone missing, presumably looking for a good place to die as some old cats and other pets do, to spare the rest of the family the sight of his passing. Instead he returned on the night of Friday, August the 14th, 2009 in his disheveled state, meowing for attention and looking not long for this world. It appears that the last place he wanted to die was surrounded by his loved ones, especially my mother, who for years had groomed his fur and fed him and gave him medicine, and in the end held him and cared for him until his last breath. It is this artist's belief that when he knew it was his time to go, he wanted to be with his momma.

He was cared for until his death for approximately 17 to 20 hours, being wiped down to try to clean him, and trying to be force fed to eat or drink something...anything. He would have none of it. He would only mowl and mewl for attention when he wanted people to be near, who had no idea what to do except try to make him as comfortable and loved in his final moments.

In his prime he was the strongest, bravest, and most uncommonly polite feline I have ever known. He never meowed unless he really wanted attention and would not bother people for food or for going out. Only in certain instances did he ever make a noise to ask us to go out, and when he did he always asked in a very polite inflection: "Mruw?" as if he was a person imitating a cat. He was as handsome as he was polite. Nice thick black and dark dark brown fur and a long bushy tail. He was like a miniature black lion casually and comfortably living with a family of humans whom he acted skittish around because of his earliest years of being feral. I believe he had always kept a hold of his wilderness inside of him, his eyes always wide with greatly dilated pupils, like an owl's. Always watching, observing, cautiously thinking of his next course of action. And boy could he get lady cats. Even after we fixed him he was still chasing after pussy. (Fuck you, I'm trying to cope here.)

When he did he was in the arms of his favorite person, one last rasping gasp and his eyes and heart went still.
I find it ironic, in fact poetic that when he first came to us as a kitten he was dirty and infected with worms...And when he died he was covered in shmutz and infected with an incurable disease.
I am proud of him in that he never died from a catfight of got eaten by a dog... He did not die a punk's death.
He came to us a scrapper and he left us as a scrapper.

And I was the one that named him.

He was my little gentleman, my good boy, and he can never be replaced, nor imitated.

May there be a slew of lady cats waiting for him up in heaven, and may the rats of hell fear his presence.