I just learned last night that my sharp and royal tuxedo cat named Prinnctopher has passed away. He was turning 8 years old this Christmas, but instead became very ill this fall and died in October. I was hoping to make him part of my life again since I moved into my own home recently, but I was too late. He wasn't being taken care of very well at all, but I shouldn't have left him where I was in the first place. I raised him from a kitten and we were a source of comfort to each other. He was my little boy. I just didn't do enough to protect him. His favorite food was tuna and wet friskies. He also loved eating Cheerios as a kitten. He liked sleeping in the bed with me and really liked a little stuffed animal he would play with and drag around everywhere. Like most kitties, he was funny and would drink running water from faucets, but not fresh water in a bowl. He ran to the bathroom whenever I went in, because he knew I was going to eventually run water. If he saw me sobbing, he would come and investigate, then sit close to me. I was told that since I'd left a year and a half ago, that he would lay in front of my bedroom door and moan. I'm sorry that he suffered.