By Harold Goldberg

Laszlo The Wondercat was my great friend. He was there through thick and thin, waiting for me whenever I returned home. While he wasn’t a lap cat, he would sit on the bed or nearby whenever I was ill. Sometimes, we would take naps together. He was so handsome and had so much personality, that he became the mascot cat for our New York Videogame Critics Circle, appearing via photos at the New York Game Awards multiple times. He was a beautiful animal.

He gave me head butts, loved cheddar cheese, enjoyed watching “Game of Thrones,” occasional video games, and Buffalo Bills games. And he almost enjoyed being sung to, a song that I made up for him. We were so close that Helen called us two gentlemen of Verona. To the tune of “Pancho and Lefty,” one of my favorite songs, Helen wrote “Harold and Laszlo.” It was so true and brilliant, it brought me to tears. It still does.

His tail would tap me on the leg or slap me on the head in signs of affection. For the last month, he slept in our bed at night, burying his head into my back. He had always been somewhat aloof, a proud man, but the sicker he got, the more affectionate he became. Aloof or affectionate, we always enjoyed being with him. He was an essential part of the family.

He had a sense of humor, too. At night, he would hop on the bed, then feign coolness while I tried to get him to head butt my fist. Eventually, he would. But he was such a great actor. He held out until I almost gave up. Then, happy and alive, he would come up near my face with a low purr. Soon, he was off in the night to scratch an old table and make efforts to climb the walls and let out a wild, mournful yell.

He didn’t really like anyone but Helen and me. He had bitten friends, relatives and acquaintances in overzealous attempts at protecting his territory. One deep bite sent Helen to the emergency room. But we forgave him because, overall, he was such a good man.

When we were upstate, he enjoyed sitting by the screen door in the morning, smelling the country air and various animals outside our Catskills summer home. He protected the house and searched for mice. By 10 p.m., he sat on the breakfast bar, alert all night for rodent intruders, our wonderful sentry cat.

He sat next to me when I reviewed Stray, a video game about an adventurous cat. I had just fallen from a height, had broken my pelvis, had torn my shoulder and walked with a walker for a while. I could barely move my hands to play a game without pain. Sitting there, as he scoffed at the cat made of bits and bytes, Laszlo helped me through the pain. And that’s one of the things about friends. They help you through things. Like life.

Last night, Helen cradled him in a towel like a baby as the doctor administered propofol and then, the euthanasia drug. He was gone so quickly

I held him and kissed his head after. His body was still warm, and he was still a handsome man. But his beautiful feline smell was gone, replaced by an antiseptic, hospital smell.

Goodbye, best friend. There will never be another cat like you. There will never be another friend like you. You will always be with us.