Fifteen years ago, my husband, Russ, got walking pneumonia. I parked him on the couch, with an electric blanket. Feisty, our grande dame, plunked down on top of him and, except for food and litter box runs, she didn't get off, for three days. The following year, on the night that Russ died, she was on his lap, when the stroke hit. Russ was sitting on the side of the bed, Scotch and soda in one hand, Cuban cigar in the other, me in the bed and Feisty on his lap. He never felt a thing. What a way, to go, surrounded by the things that make you happy.