Cats choose their spot and it becomes theirs permanently. The windowsill, the one good chair, the exact center of whatever you happened to be reading. You were not consulted about any of it and you would not have won the argument anyway.
The Day of the Dead treatment suits them beautifully, every one of them looking entirely pleased with itself. Anyone who has lived with a cat will recognize the expression.
That tradition uses marigolds and music and good food rather than quiet and black, because the point was never to be solemn about it. The point was to keep the company, say the name out loud, put out the thing they liked, and let the remembering be warm.
So the strange noise at four in the morning. The chair they destroyed with total commitment. The night they decided you needed sitting on and could not be reasoned with. All of it stays exactly as good as it always was.
They picked you. That part was never in question and has not changed since.
