The tag line effectively summarizes the operation; Fezzik is the eponymous cowardly-but-dog-sized feline.
He may or may not offer peanuts.
The pictures above show the gang as they existed during our time in Paris.
Aurora, who at nearly 14 years of age was still running up the side of a 72-inch tall cat tree, went into massive rapid-onset heart failure and died, aided by the vet, while being cuddled by the Purrito and I on 15 April 2019. Prior to her sudden illness, we often joked that she would live to 20 owing to good health and an overwhelming desire to spite the Purrito (whom she loved, but pretended otherwise). As admittedly irrational as it was, part of me thought that she would live forever, until she did not.
Fezzik, our namesake and 30 pounds of giant European shorthair, died on 7 March 2022. Our gentle giant had been fighting diabetes, but a trip to the emergency vet after a bout of labored breathing revealed that in addition to heart failure, he was in diabetic keto acidosis, his liver and kidneys were suspect, and his white blood cell count was off. In the last few months of his life, Fezzik found himself; he allowed us to give him insulin without complaint, and where he had once run from the vacuum, he instead stood his ground, albeit with eyes firmly closed. The cat for whom we had made a small-scale living room on a stair landing had decided that he loved us, and eagerly waited in the evenings for me and the Purrito to sit on the couch, placing himself on a cushion between us, happily merping as we petted him.
Fezz was solitary most of his life and that made it easy to see him as an inhabitant of the background; I would like to think, I need to think, that his true feelings were on display when the emergency vet brought him into the room for the last time and he started happily, haltingly purring, relieved to see us, eager to love us and to be loved by us.
As the Purrito would say after, he was the goodest boy; I can only hope that he knew so at the end.