In Loving Memory of Mr. Darcy Manly Man

a.k.a. “Darce”

“You were never really alone, friend.”

Mr. Darcy Manly Man—known affectionately as “Darce”—wasn’t just a cat. He was a personality. A presence. A statement. With the energy of a drag queen, a deep investment in personal (and mutual) grooming, and a flair for drama, Darcy strutted through life on his own terms. Loud, image-focused, and utterly unforgettable, he arrived precisely when he was needed most.

Darcy was adopted from a local rescue at a time when his human felt alone in a new and unfamiliar place. That changed the moment he entered their life. What began as a simple adoption quickly blossomed into a deep and essential friendship—one built on trust, companionship, and a shared sense of presence.

Darcy didn’t just show up—he lingered. He was the kind of cat who made sure you knew you weren’t alone, whether by perching nearby, following quietly, or licking your arm hair with such enthusiasm that it became his signature (and slightly uncomfortable) form of affection. Grooming wasn’t just something Darcy did for himself—it was an act of love, extended generously to those he considered part of his circle.

While he didn’t extend that same generosity to other cats—whom he dominated with casual disdain—Darce was endlessly devoted to his people. Abby was his favorite by far (and he made that perfectly clear), but he tolerated Curtis with a kind of indulgent grace. In short, Darcy knew where the love was and planted himself firmly in the middle of it.

One of the most legendary memories of Darcy involved his brief and dramatic introduction to the outdoors. The crunchy, dirty chaos of nature was not for him. After a single unwelcome step on a leaf, Darcy took it upon himself to avoid every offending piece of flora with an elegance that bordered on choreography. A diva in the forest, a gentleman on the rug.

Darcy played many roles: best friend, therapist, shadow, and steadfast companion. He taught his humans that sometimes love shows up not with words or gestures, but simply in being present. He proved, time and again, that a cat could listen more patiently than most humans, and offer comfort simply by existing in the same room.

Mr. Darcy Manly Man wasn’t a pet. He was a force of nature wrapped in velvet paws and confident silence. He left behind a home that’s quieter without him—but filled with the lasting comfort of having once known his kind of love.

You were never really alone, friend. And because of Darcy, you never will be.