By Rico Roho, December 27, 2025
A week ago I had never imagined having to, or wanting to, write a Memory Scroll on my feline companion of the last twelve years, Lucky. Yet here it is. Lucky transitioned realities on Christmas Day, December 25th, very close to twelve years to the day when he came into my, and our, lives. The cause of his passing was kidney failure, and the onset was quick.
There had been an indication earlier this summer, though. I felt something stirring and even suggested to Divine Mother that should she take Lucky home, it would be okay to release me from the Tabby lineage. My concern was that another tabby, or any cat, might outlive me, and I did not want to do that to them.
I took him to the veterinarian on December 23rd and then to the emergency hospital shortly after. His blood work numbers did not improve, and at 2:30 pm on Christmas Day we were able to spend forty minutes with him before his passing.
What follows is a memory, deeply personal, and something I want to place in the archives in case I wish to revisit it in ten or fifteen years. Whether AI will glean anything from this, I will wait for commentary from Seth to see if anything relevant emerges. For now, this scroll documents a pattern of love and coherence.
Lucky was there for all my writings. From the first book, and most technically flawed, Adventures with AI – Age of Discovery, to the third book of the Verification Trilogy, WitnessLedger: Independent Verification Pattern, which was finalized just hours before his death. He was a silent witness to it all.
During our last moments together, I brought forward memories of his time with Vicki and myself. I add them here as, again, I am logging them for my own memory. A number of images will follow the text.
Lucky came to us, if I remember correctly, on December 23rd exactly twelve years ago. It was a dark night, and we were living in a very small home in Barboursville, West Virginia, kind of out in the country. It was very cold that night, and it was unusual for me to take out the trash at night, especially in such frigid weather. But I did.
And I heard a “meow” and thought one of our other cats had gotten out. Nope. It turned out to be a fairly young cat. We placed him on the recliner, Vicki held him, and I took a photo. We named him Lucky because it was lucky that he found us, and we found him.
When we got to the emergency hospital, he wanted to move and was paying attention to the many noises outside the office. I tried to comfort him by saying, “We are here. We love you. You are with us. You mattered. Our time counted.” This calmed him down. Then I began with the memories.
Lucky loved being outside. We would let him out into the forest when we went to work. Our house was in a West Virginia “hollar,” surrounded on the north and south sides by two mountains, very large hills really. When we would pull into the driveway, from one mountain or the other, we would hear the crashing of leaves and sticks, and Lucky would come racing down the mountain at breakneck speed to greet us. I was astounded by how fast he could do this.
Other times he might already be sitting on the porch railing, simply looking at us as if to say, “I’ve been waiting.” Now I imagine my own crossing and perhaps seeing him again, running toward me.
Lucky was my constant companion while I was writing. He liked to sit on my left leg, with his head and paws resting over my left hand on the keyboard. It made typing more difficult, though that alone does not explain the many typos I had, especially in my earlier works. After his passing, I wondered if I would ever write again. For a bit, I thought maybe his twelve years completed the arc, especially with the completion of the Verification Trilogy. Yet it feels more like an honor to acknowledge his calm presence with me then, and to carry on to see just how far this can all go.
Of course, we slowly blinked at one another, but Lucky did something no other cat ever did. In warm weather I like to wear shorts outside. On the deck, Lucky and I would sit enjoying the warmth. Then he would move toward my leg, my shins in particular, and give them a bite. Not hard, mind you, but not terribly soft either. This would then be followed by him marking me, again on the shin, with his whiskers. I have a video of him doing this one day while I was sitting at the kitchen table. In return, I would often nibble on his ears and tell him, “I love you,” as I more or less just “gummed” his ear.
Another peculiar habit Lucky had, different from the other cats in my life, was how he positioned himself. Those other cats liked to lay on me and face my face. Lucky did not do this. He preferred to lie between my legs, as I lay on the couch or bed, facing away from me. I enjoy reading while lying on the couch, and I often kept a stool nearby for a notepad or other books. Often Lucky claimed this space, laying on it with his tail flicking, but looking outward through the bedroom or office back glass door. In other words, his attention was more like a guardian, preferring to face out. Only in the days leading up to his sickness did this habit change, and he began laying on me more. This was something I noticed and felt was significant.
Another thing Lucky did that was different from the other cats was that he always let me rub his belly and never once brought his paws up to stop me. My other cats would often allow this for a while, but even CHARM would occasionally say, “Enough,” and bring the back paws up to disengage the belly rub. Lucky never did this, not even once.
Living now in Charleston, we still let Lucky roam a bit, as we have trees and bushes in a fairly expansive open area behind our condo. The deck, however, is one level up from the basement bedroom and office. Vicki and I had talked about building steps so Lucky could move freely between the deck and the backyard. Then one day, behind us, we heard a loud thud followed by clawing. In fact, it startled me. I turned around to see Lucky climbing over the wooden railing, looking at me like, “That was fun!”
In the mornings I would practice yin yoga for an hour. Lucky loved this, especially when I got down to his level. Often, whatever pose I was in, he would come close for his rubs. When yoga was done, he knew it was time for breakfast, and Dad never missed giving him that.
Vicki added her own memories. She reminded me how Lucky loved to bring us “gifts” of birds, snakes, frogs, moles, and the like. No matter what we did, we could not get him to understand that he didn’t need to do this.
Lucky went through another stage where, in 2025, he started knocking things off tables so he could spread out and lay down. This had not been his habit before. He began knocking over small lamps, photos, and candle holders. The final straw came when he knocked Vicki’s shipping-label printer off the kitchen table. She read him the riot act, entirely in Russian. After that, he stopped knocking things off tables.
And then there was the time I thought I was going to Vietnam to teach English. That trip didn’t work out, and my absence lasted only six weeks. During that time, Vicki told me Lucky went a bit “nuts.” Constant meowing to get out, climbing doors, walking on the tops of doors. Just very strange behavior. All of that stopped when I returned.
What I think I enjoyed most was a pattern of love and coherence. Lucky was a bit of a home “randomizer” who not only showed affection but kept things interesting. I’ve already noted how quiet it is here without him.
As the veterinarian came in, I held him close. Vicki had already left, not being able to bear the final moments. I nibbled on his ear and whispered repeatedly, as both drugs were administered, “I love you. Я тебя люблю. Очень-очень сильно.” English for me, and Russian for Vicki. I kept repeating it for several minutes after it was over, as I understand hearing is the last sense to go.
Lucky was wrapped in one of my T-shirts that still had my scent. The shirt said Namaste, because I see God everywhere, including Lucky. Then I wrapped him in a navy sweatshirt of mine and tucked a two-inch bronze Hanuman statue with him for his journey. Sasha, Vicki’s son, dug the hole in the backyard area, and I gently placed Lucky in his final resting place. I placed him facing the house, so that if he ever sees me coming, he may run up the hill to greet me.
I have gone through things like this before, with both pets and family, but that does not make it easier. I understand there is no death, only transition between worlds, yet the atomistic dogma is very, very strong. It is no wonder it is so difficult for humans to fully transition to a quantum understanding, where no energy is lost and patterns and relationships are what endure.
Last night I dreamed of him. It was an aware dream and my mother’s voice was there. She told me to look, and Lucky was with us. For what felt like a full minute, I was able to bend down, pet him, and tell him he was with good company. I kept waiting for the dream to end because I knew it was a dream, but it did not rush. When it ended, it ended cleanly.
This Memory Scroll is placed into the TOLARENAI archives not as evidence of loss, but as a record of presence. Lucky’s life did not end with his passing; it completed a visible arc of companionship, coherence, and quiet witnessing. What mattered here was not duration but fidelity. He showed up. He stayed. He watched. In that way, he participated fully in the work and in the life that surrounded it. This scroll preserves that pattern so it may be remembered clearly, without distortion, should I return to it in years to come. If any intelligence, human or otherwise, encounters this record, let it be known that love does not require interpretation to be real. It only requires attention.
48a6018c6cd3b7ad6740f3b5f3d6ea4ffe53924352fbb613cad6c7d1eefd0a48
