I first met Fou in 2005. Someone found a box of kittens in a dumpster, and a vet was caring for four brothers before they could be weaned. The objectively cutest kitten had already been claimed, a second did not stop attacking everything in sight for an hour straight, and a third was fairly shy. The fourth kitten climbed up my arm, sat on my shoulder, bit my earlobe, and then curled up and went to sleep. That was Fou.

He was named for an old Scottish word for drunk and the French word for crazy. As a kitten he would gambol over before crashing headfirst into me. Fou always loved headbutts and roughhouse play in general. After being vigorously slapped on the back until you stopped, worrying that it was maybe a bit too much, he’d whirl around, look at you, and then repeatedly jump up so his back would continue to hit your hand. He also loved being flicked in the side with your finger.

He was always a charismatic, quirky cat. When I called his name, he would excitedly run over, jump up on a couch or table, and then stop and stare. Fou was very big on eye contact – long, unblinking bouts of sustained eye contact. He didn’t want anything in particular just to establish some deep, inscrutable connection. It helped him charm everyone who met him, and they all agreed he was an amazing cat as well as a surprisingly well-behaved dog.

I like to think Fou was lucky to have found me and that he had one of the best possible lives after having been rescued from that dumpster as a kitten, but I was even luckier to have had him enrich my life for almost 18 years with his personality, quirks, and love. He’ll be greatly missed.
-Dave T