Old Soldier Gone

What's a soldier? A being who gives his or her life to a cause, an idealist who does it - not just  talks about it, someone who is faithful in the highest measure, someone who is not a coward no matter how afraid it sometimes is as a soldier. I knew a cat who was a solider and his nine lives are all used up and he is recently gone. His name, aptly, being an orange male cat, is Marmalade. When he came to his home, he was a kitten - a tough little bugger (excuse the language but it seems fitting for such a cat) - who got into many scraps and bore the scars as proof. He didn't instigate them, he merely guarded his property. He caught his first mouse early and sadly but not for his kind, many birds. He respected, however, the hovering owl that frequented his rural home and he ran from the farm dogs who had reputations of daring even to bite humans, but he loved dearly, his two little girls. He watched, lovingly, those girls become women and move from his home. They came to visit with him after that and his purrs were as loud as motor boats when they held him. When he was young, he was scrappy. He felt it his duty to protect the yard for he had marked it all around as his country. He did wander to the friendly neighbors who knew cats, having their collection of them. And they generously shared many a meal with him from their own bowls. Marmalade liked to go out at night. Cats are more or less nocturnal, but are seldom allowed out by most keepers, to follow their natural bent. Cats like to show their appreciation, by delivering if not all, some of their catch. The latter is not always appreciated by their keepers who don't fancy a headless mouse or a section of  garter snake left beside their beds. Dead birds are usually brought in whole. Even cats do not like to disturb tidy feathered arrangements to any degree. Cats have a penchant for neatness considering the time they spend attending to their coats. They sleep a good deal during the day and have peculiar habits such as running about at high speed and crashing into walls for no apparent reason. With all of their energy, it is likely to be simply letting off steam. No one owns a cat. A cat owns itself.  Marmalade was a gentleman cat, albeit a manly man sort of  cat. His keepers, for the sake of saving his life during his nighttime rambling and running into bigger cats, had him neutered, but it didn't bother him much. He was a kind of rugby player cat who was not a family man anyway other than guarding his human keepers. Marmalade had his edges. You could coddle and stroke him but only for the allotted mysterious time that HE had in mind. His keepers showed their scratch marks when with no warning, Marmalade had said, STOP. Not having words to use, this was his way of putting an end to too much babying. A couple of times he met up with the local veterinarian down the road a piece. The encounter was short and usually involved some kind of medicine or stitches. Yesterday, he was carried, at a very old age, due to complete kidney failure off to the veterinarian.  Marmalade's now grown girl keepers and their father, said good-bye to him on this, his last trip to the vet. He was kindly, released from a long and soldier-like life, a vet himself. It was okay with Marmalade. His girls are old enough now to take care of themselves.