Our Perfect Companions Never Have Fewer Than Four Feet.

Today, Cliff and I stopped by my parents house to pick up a few Christmas presents from my Dad's side of the family, because I had to work on Boxing day, and missed visiting with them that day.

My mom was sitting in the living room next to the cat post, where my cat, Bob sat on his haunches, looking rather despondant and not even lifting his head up when I scratched behind his ears.

"He hasn't eaten in two days." She said.

I looked at my cat, who did look rather weak and gaunt. I slid my hand from the tip of his nose to the base of his spine, scratching him above the tail where he usually loves being scratched, and got very little response. He didn't even lift his head.

"I think he's going to go in a few days."

"Oh."

I continued to pet my cat, gently. Feeling his spine through his skin, and I didn't know what to think. Cliff was waiting in the car. I shouldn't stay long. I told my cat I loved him, a few times, actually... Grabbed my stuff off the chair, kissed my mom goodbye, and then left.

It's hard to know that my cat is going to die.

I didn't take him when I moved because my apartment building didn't allow cats, and truth be told, my dad loved him so much that I didn't have the heart to take him away. The damned cat waited at the door for my dad like a puppy when it was time for him to get home from work. I might have picked him out of the box of kittens 14 years ago, but it was my Dad who got most his affection.That's okay, though. Dad earned it.

Bob still came up to me for pets and cuddles occasionally. He came when he required a lift up to the window sill, or a scratch at the base of his tail, or help reaching a rabbit fur mouse he'd batted too far under the couch to reach with a paw, or when I'd had a rough time with a relationship and needed a curled up friend in my lap, he was there.

I got in the car, and Cliff asked me what I wanted for dinner. I just started crying.

I'll miss my cat, when he goes.

We tie bright ribbons around their necks, and occasionally little tinkling bells, and we affect to think that they are as sweet and vapid as the coy name "kitty" by which we call them would imply. It is a curious illusion. For purring beside our fireplaces and pattering along our back fences, we have got a wild beast as uncowed and uncorrupted as any under heaven.

– Alan Devoe