Pepper died July 19/20, right around midnight-ish.
A black cat with a very distinct personality. Some might say she wasn't a very nice cat. But she was. She loved her family with all her tiny little heart. She was affectionate with them. They called her "Poopie." She would allow them to pet her, play with her, kiss her. She ate mini marshmallows.
She scratched my foot the one time I tried to feed her a snack, when the family was away and DH and I were taking care of her. She needed us for food, water and a clean litterbox, but she scratched my foot.
It took years, but eventually, after many, many Mondays spent around their kitchen table, Pepper would once in a while walk past my leg, rubbing against it, accidentally of course, although they all said she did it 'cause she liked me.
She became sick. Very sick. We don't know if it was a stroke or a brain tumor, but three weeks ago or so she fell. She started to walk funny, sort of loose-hipped, with a distinct lean to one side. She started to become paralyzed. Eventually she couldn't eat or drink herself; they fed her with a food syringe. They held her for hours and hours every day, never leaving her alone.
On July 16, Pepper let me pet her. I knew this wasn't a good sign. Her fur felt cool to the touch, cooler than I thought it should, although I didn't say anything. They assured me Pepper would let me pet her.
I wish she hadn't. I wish she was still here to avoid me and to scratch me. Both DH and I were devastated when Pepper's family called to tell us she was gone.
She will always be remembered.