George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.
He’d rather sit on the dock, feeding bits of fish to the cats who roamed there.
When he’d find a sick or hurt one, he’d care for it, and take it to the local veterinarian.
Some made it. Others didn’t.
He’d take a shovel to the woods, dig a hole by a his favorite tree, and carefully bury them.
“Their tenth lives are our memories of them,” he’d whisper, the closest thing to a prayer he knew.
Then he’d walk back to the dock, to the ship, and sleep.