Our adopted feral cat Squawk died, I think a few days ago, defending his attic stronghold from invading raccoons.

I just buried him under the Rising Star Clematis at the corner of the tractor shed.

His body was found tangled in the insulation over the den, pretty torn up, but still proudly wearing his reflective flea collar, a symbol of his citizenship in the Broussard family where his memory will be cherished.

Bye Squawk. You always knew you were more than just a barn cat, even if we wouldn't let you into the house