Our Sherlock passed this week at around 17 years. He rests on a spot overlooking the meadow he romped on, where he caught bees until his tongue was so swollen it no longer fit in his mouth.
Twice, about 3 years apart, he snuck and sought out the most uptight of our neighbors and repeatedly crapped on their decks until quarantined. Somehow they still liked him. He was a clown, acrobat, and climber. He was found in a tree, which was hard to believe until I saw him at old school first bolt height a few times, in our trees. Crazy balance and speed, no fly buzzed more than a couple minutes in the house before being snapped out of existence.
The girls loved him and Rachel took care of him these last years as only someone who is fluent in "animal" can. Now he roams in the Great Beyond, most likely dry-humping resident cats, sacred sheep, cows and the legs of slow moving angels.
