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3/4/12: crunchy peas.

2/19/12: comics.

For almost nineteen of my years, and about ten of my husband's, we've had The World's Most Handsomest Cat as a friend, confidant, household comedian, and lap-warmer. Today we have to let him go.

There are things that one says in this situation, of course. We tell ourselves -- truthfully -- that our old friend is no longer the strong, robust fellow he used to be. We tell ourselves -- again, truthfully -- that he is uncomfortable, unable to enjoy many of the things he's always loved. We tell ourselves that his illness is advancing, and that we can't put him through any more investigation, trial, and error. We reassure ourselves that we're protecting his quality of life by refusing to let it decline further. We tell ourselves that he misses our other cat, whom we lost a year and a half ago. His favorite fleece blanket and pillow suffice, now that he sleeps more and more, but it's not nearly as comforting as a warm, breathing companion who speaks his own language, is it?

We know we're doing the right thing, but it still feels wrong and lonely to imagine a future without him.

He came to me at a time when I was feeling pretty hopeless. I'd just dropped out of college, because I lacked the money to continue; I was living in a crappy apartment in a crappy part of town, at the mercy of an infrequent bus schedule, working at a crappy and soulless editing job, trying to cobble together some sort of foothold in the gears of it all. In spring, I got a call from a friend who knew I missed living with cats; she'd found a tiny kitten abandoned on campus and thought of me. The rest is history. He's been with me through everything. We built a great life. We adopted another cat, and then we finished school, moved north, lived happily. The family expanded: we added a husband, an amazing set of in-laws, more and more friends, and then a wiggly, noisy, loving, chaotic little kid. We have had such a beautiful life... and yet, there's always the bitter with the sweet. We've always known that, eventually, this day would come, especially after we lost Yum Yum. We've been all too conscious of that lingering hint of dénouement.

There's also the complicated business of thinking, in future tense, about how we will talk to our son (who is three and precocious) about Akira's passing, in past tense. The end is still a few hours away, so I can't think of Akira in past tense yet; but my need for closure and forethought is forcing the issue.

When I was Ax's age, out in the country, I'd already seen the cycles of birth and death and renewal unfolding in the woods and fields and streams, so I made sense of it in my own way, for better or worse. Our little guy doesn't have reference points like that, beyond vague memories of our other cat and an understanding that gardens decline in winter (which, of course, is related in the grand scheme, but isn't quite the same). He understands that Akira is old and sick and unwell, but he has no practical or recent experience with finality. Being a writer, I stubbornly insist on finding words for everything, to the point where it's just absurd. I still want to have prepared some kind of elegant explanation, even when I know the real answer is to simply be honest and straightforward and get out of the way, to trust in our son's intelligence, to see where his questions lead. He has seen us worrying and hovering. He will see us grieving, and he will see that Akira is no longer at home with us; he will make sense of it, perhaps with our help, perhaps in spite of it.

He will have experienced loss.

We love our handsome cat. We love him so much, and he loves us too. But he is sick and very old, and he can't get well now, and so, later today, he will have died.

Akira used to loll on his back in the sun (as evidenced in this photo). This is how I will remember him. I will have let the memories of his current state fade; I will have chosen not to remember him frail, tired, ungroomed. I will remember him as the baby he once was, not even weaned yet, already full of life and affection and piss and vinegar. I will remember his rotten temper, for which he is named. I will remember him and my husband falling in love. I will remember his near-limitless patience and fortitude, as my tiny, enthusiastic son gradually learned to pet him gently. I will remember a solid, purring ball by my slde, and the feel of his breathing. I will remember cat feet thundering through the house in the night. I will remember whiskers shining in the afternoon sun.

We love him so much. We will always miss him.

We're so sad to let him go. But we have to.

(Photo taken 6/12/07.)

1/26/12. (Wow, the video quality from my little gadget is pretty bad... but my kid's cuteness makes up for it.)

1/14/12: my boy is many heroes in one. I like that about him. (Even if it does mingle DC and Marvel.)