When our cat Goliath was close approaching his second millenium, I was given a wall plaque with a quote that said something to the effect that, “Here Lives a very fine cat, indeed.”

It was, as Goliath could attest, and often did, very true. When Goliath moved on to greener pastures and doubtless better vittles, not to mention dogs who properly understood his Authority and that they were subject to it, it still took me a while to take down the plaque.  It’s in the drawer with my checkbook, and I saw it this morning.  It reminded me of another Very Fine Cat, Indeed.

He was called Bart.

He was my friend Nancy The Cat-Slayer’s cat (or she was his human), and I have known Bart since he could sit in the palm of my hand.

Those who came to know him in his days of greater ponderance (is that a word? The spell-checker says not) find that hard to believe. Bart was generally beyond a handful. But, ah, when he was small . . .

He came to live with Nancy surreptitiously, brought home by her son and a friend.  They sort of smuggled him in because he was, well, tiny — and in need of a home.

And then they skulked around muttering things like, “Shall we tell her?” until Nancy finally asked, “Tell her what?”

That Bart had come to live with them.

She could have protested, of course.  But Nancy is a woman of great wisdom, and she knew the value of a Great Cat when she saw one — even one who was a mere handful at the time.

He was tiny and white with just a few black and gray dots and a tail that obviously belonged to some other cat — a gray and white striped one. But one one told Bart, so he thought it was his.

He was a lovely cat. He was a long-suffering cat.

He learned how to play chess and how to play several different card games. He read the sports page (he was a Steelers fan), and he did crossword puzzles.

He was endlessly patient with people who put silly hats on his head, and he dealt with dogs as well as he did with people. He coped with Annie the dog and Arrow the dog — and a couple of huge giant visiting dogs — and he never batted an eyelash. Well, he did — but only to let them know who was boss.

He even mustered the energy to put new Mr Mac (aka Mac-a-loon) in his place when he came home to be Nancy’s newest buddy this winter.

Over the years Bart and I spent many days together while Nancy was on vacation. I would go over and feed him and talk to him and brush him every day, and he was alwa ys at the door to meet me. Sometimes, in fact, he was leaning against the door, so tired he was of waiting for me. And he always gave me an indignant squawk when I came is, as if to say, “Well, it’s about time . . .”

As far as he was concerned, it was always about time — and never soon enough to get his dish filled.

So it was disturbing last week when he didn’t really seem to want to eat that much.  He was still at the door — Bart never gave up his post for anything. And he still walked me back to the kitchen, checking to see every few steps if I remembered the way. And he still purred mightily when I brushed him. He had the Most Amazing Purr.  But he didn’t much want to eat. He couldn’t be bothered with anything other than Greenies. (Yes, Sid, he, too, loved Greenies).

This morning he didn’t want Greenies.   He was ready for better things, better places, and — eventually —  Greenies galore. On demand.

I had the privilege of being there with him when he went.  I saw him smile. And I understood later, when my cousin called this afternoon, exactly what that smile was all about.

With his exquisite timing, Bart had managed to cross the rainbow bridge on my Uncle George’s 100th birthday.  There is undoubtedly a huge party going on in Uncle George’s part of heaven right now — and every cat will be invited.

After all, Uncle George’s last words to my aunt were, “Don’t forget to feed the cats.”

He and Bart will get along just fine.

It’s just the rest of us who will be missing him.