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  • [es-pree de less-ka/-iay] (idiom) A witty remark that occurs to you too late, literally on the way down the stairs. The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations defines esprit de l'escalier as, "An untranslatable phrase, the meaning of which is that one only thinks on one's way downstairs of the smart retort one might have made in the drawing room."

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November 10, 2011

Comments

I am so sorry to hear this news about your dear Frank, but, yes, as you say, it is good to know what happened to him. You were very lucky to have known such a wonderful and loving cat as Frank... xo

P.S. I love the Frank photos you shared in this post.

Awww, Claire. I know you loved him so much. I am so very sorry for your loss and am glad you shared these photos and good memories of Frank.

I am so sincerely sorry for your loss.

Wow. This post broke me down to tears, seriously. Thank god you gave Frank the best life possible. It's so sad what happened, but like someone else mentioned, it's great to have all these beautiful images to have forever.
Stay strong.

Nick

Claire, I haven't stopped crying since I read this, I am so sorry for you. I only met Frank twice (in two different cities) but feel like he was part of my life through your pictures and posts. I'll miss him. xxx

I'm so sorry, Claire.

Claire...I am so sorry. This is horrible. I never spent any time with him, but I feel as if I did through your photographs. He will be missed by so many, I am sure.

i am so very sorry for your loss. losing a pet is one on the hardest things. but i love your mom's words. so true. xoxo

Growing up in a pretty testosterone filled household, I was taught at an early age not to like cats. There was always a sense of weakness placed on them (looking back, I think it's because my Dad is really allergic).

In any case, I never had my own cat growing up, and was always averse to being around them, mostly because, in my mind, a cat belonged next to the other frilly things in the pink aisle at the toy store.

When Libby and I started dating, I knew that I would have to get used to cats being around. Her cats' behavior just reinforced the idea I had in my head: somewhat aloof, and definitely not manly.

As the years went by, the cats became more accustomed to me. This brought about a mini identity-crisis where I constantly asked myself if it was okay to like this type of pet that I have been conditioned to hate all of my years.

Then I met Frank. If a man's man ever wanted a cat, it would be Frank. Colored in a grey fur that was more akin to gun metal than to stuffed animal, Frank was a true defender of his turf. He had the cold-blooded instincts of Tony Montana, the heart and toughness of Augustus McCray, and the speed and rugged good looks of Bullitt. I never met a cat that was always ready to wrestle. Mind you, I'm not saying "play," but wrestle. He wrestled in the ways brothers wrestle each other: one wrong move gets you a paw upside the head, but it's no hard feelings afterwards.

Frank was a great friend. It is because of Frank that I now not only tolerate cats, but actually enjoy them. We are all lucky to have known Frank, and we will all miss him.

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