Fluffy died today, my handsome black long-hair with the white patch at his throat and a white stripe across his rump. Here's his picture from when I was trying to get a look at his neck wound in February. I found him in his favorite napping spot by the corner of the garage early this afternoon--not napping. I'd seen him in that same spot earlier; I stopped to watch him then for a few seconds to make sure he was breathing (morbid, but he was curled up kinda funny), saw that he was breathing fine, and moved on. I really thought he was just asleep. When I came out the second time, hours later, he hadn't moved a muscle--not normal for a cat. Sure enough, he was long gone. Judging by his fur and the many clumps of same in the garage, he must have gotten into a really bad fight; maybe that was the cause of his death.
Unlike with Leo's late big brother, Whitetip, the first feral to die in my yard, there was no possibility of having Fluffy cremated--I don't have the cash and I'm not using credit cards right now--so I buried him in a corner of my yard.
Fluffy was one of my oldest ferals; I think he was in the second batch I trapped to neuter. He and Scarface (whom I haven't seen in a very long time) were originally named Heckle & Jeckle because they were two black critters who hung out together all the time. They both disappeared for a while, Scarface came back and showed his mean streak, then Fluffy returned, but they didn't seem to hang out together anymore. Scarface disappeared completely about a year ago.
Fluffy spent about two years visiting my yard, napping in peace, eating regularly, and drinking clean water. I hope they were good years for him.