At least that's what he wanted you to think. In truth, he was a Soviet agent, tasked with infiltrating American kittydom in idyllic Grand Ledge, Michigan.
His desire to return intelligence to mother Russia was eclipsed only by his curiosity about the outside world. The allure of America called to him at every moment. He was always the first cat waiting to dash out of whatever door had been opened.
There were windows to be looked out of.
Boxes to be sat in.
And oh, those American birds.
In his younger days, Boris was the master of leaping into the air in pursuit of string toys, huffing and puffing "HA!" with each bounce. He would jump and "HA! HA! HA!" over and over and over. I would tire of the game before he would.
My dad and stepmom said goodbye to Boris today. He was ten years old. He had been battling lymphoma, but it finally got to be too much. He was a shadow of his former self. And so the vet came to their home this evening, as she did for Darcie and Alice last year.
I will miss him, that Blackie. I will miss making up ridiculous stories about him. I will miss his "HA!" I will miss how the only part of him that you could see in the dark was his eyes. I will miss how he slept on my feet at night when I went home for a visit.
Spokojnoj nochi, Boris, and do svidaniya.