. . .

Vivaldi would have wanted it this way.

Not the composer. Perish the very mention of the very intention of the first inclination of the thought. No, Vivaldi is my cat. Was my cat, I must deign to inform you. He has passed on to that great catnip lake in the sky, where he can compose melodies to his heart's very content.

Or was that the composer?

Vivaldi did have his little weaknesses for catnip, I must confess. That little wicked glint would sprout from behind his eyes, the corner of his mouth would perk up at just precisely the correct and right and proper angle, his furry buttocks would crouch low to the ground, and he'd make that quite and particular noise which would grab me by the netherquarters, shake me firmly, and inform me in no uncertain tones that he was ready for his catdrugs NOW, thanks. And be quickly about it!

Which does explain much about his ways and means, doesn't it? I rather would have thought so. Of course, you don't know Vivaldi. Didn't, when his bodily organs engaged in the process of carrying out their daily affaire's. He had many of those. His winsome smile carried him quickly in and out the windows of the rich and the famous, as well as those who simply had attractive femme felines sunning themselves at the passers-by. I partake of that trifle my very own self, when I'm so inclined, which explains why the femme looking up at me with that glow in her eye is quite so attractively disheveled.

She, on the other hand, is less furry than the ones my boon and sworn companion favored. Indeed, the longer the fur, the more he was enfavored, if I might be so bold as to make the statement. The sight of Persians would send him into torrents of rapture, and, shortly, them as well.

But he'd give it all up for the catnip. It reminds me of that perfectly little dreadful song I heard the youths of my apartment playing on their noisemakers in the recent past. "It all has something to do with the nookie", I do think me it was, and it had one of those mindlessly repetitive beats that Steve, who is the gentleman lying next to me on the _other_ side looking quite as attractively disheveled, if not a tiiiiny bit more so, finds so arousing. Intellectually, I mean.

Yes, the catnip. Vivaldi was, as it has wisely been noted, all about the catnip. Which fact, indeed, was the very thing that led to his (can one call it?) inevitable demise, as the patch of catnip he most favored was that very patch grown in the patio of the apartment on the top floor of that very self same building in which I, myself, currently reside, one noted for its ability to give a great many objects a quite alarmingly large quantity of delta v. That's change in velocity, for those of you not in the habit of translating the terminology of the members of my quite exclusive little circle of soulmates who are cursed with a superfluity of extraneous intellectual acheivement, measured in the terms of what the state of New York is inclined to call a Masters Degree in Engineering. This trait is in remarkable abundance in my borough. You'd think that with all that book larnin' they'd be able to find something impressive and important to do rather than the rather tawdry commercial pursuits they seem forced to, well, persue. When I am so inclined, I am prone to flinging small metallic articles of less than no value off the edge. Alarmingly high. I've heard tales of pennies buried in sidewalk, but one must discount urban mythos.

Vivaldi (the cat) was in the habit, some mornings, of clambering his agile little way up to such previously referred to balcony, inhaling to his little coeur's delight of the nectar of the almighty there emplaced, and making his way downward again, noticeably less agile than before. The only wonder was that it hadn't happened long before time.

Wind, my dear. These mighty buildings here seem designed to funnel winds through at tremendous velocities, and one took it into its mind, if a blustery force of nature's glory can be said to have such a thing, to arrive at the proper place at the time Vivaldi (not the composer) was making his last leap. The irony of the whole thing, of course, being that the accurse'd event happened as he was making his way upward, before his faculties were in the least impaired.

Which explains everything, I hope. My late cats dying wish was, naturally, for one last bite of the garden's grace that had been, in a very literal sense, his downfall, and, as he cannot be here in person to partake, we, his duly appointed representatives, are here to comport ourselves in the proper spirits for him. We shall be away from your domicile as soon as we are finished. Unless you'd care to join us? It is, indeed, quite delicious.