No witty title today

Almost 18 years ago, I was on my way into the health food store where I worked. I was going into my junior year at UCSB and had just moved into a bungalow in downtown Santa Barbara with my boyfriend and a coworker who later became "my crazy ex-roommate". As I headed up to the office to start keeping the books as usual, my future crazy ex-roommate stopped me.

"I can't believe you're not coming in here with the kitten."

Kitten? I saw no kitten. "What kitten," I asked predictibly.

The one in the box at the front doors, the one the guy was trying to give away. She hadn't finished her sentence and I was already back outside. I'm not sure she realized that by mentioning the kitten was a tacit approval to bring it home.

He was a little black scrap of a cat-- probably a few days too young to be away from his mother, but he was mine before I even picked him up. He was the last in the box, so I got to keep the box as well. I raced up the stairs to the office, enlisting a coworker on his break to keep an eye on my new buddy while I ran to Trader Joes next door for some basic kitten supplies.

He sat unnamed on my lap all day, purring the whole time. When it was time to leave I hid him in my backpack and smuggled him onto the bus. He was a perfect little gentleman and didn't make a peep. I honestly don't remember the boyfriend's reaction, but this kitten was so adorable he couldn't have put up much of a fight. I remember us laying on the bed, throwing out names with this little purring ball in front of us:

"Jeremy! "
"Hillary! "
"Boob! "
"Phd! "

That was it: Phd (pronouced "fdd"). It was perfect.

We already had 3 other cats, but it didn't take the others too long to stop hissing at him and start letting him snuggle up (even Tisha, who was a year older and even that young wasn't really into other cats). He purred constantly. Seriously, he was always purring. I'd never met such a sociable cat. He adored our other black cat, Neighbor, and was heartbroken when she was killed by a car. He grew up quickly and his enthusiasm for food soon turned him into a really thick, really long dude (that's what she said?).

I have had him for nearly 18 years, minus the year he was living with the now ex-boyfriend. Everyone who meets his immediately loves him. It is impossible not to love Dr. Phlyd, of the Rangoon* clinic for the terminally pantless.

All our cats are seniors now (Tisha's a year older than Phlyd-- she will outlive us all). But Phlyd (whose name gained an L and a vowel, courtesy of a roommate, a New Orleans Saints fan with a penchant for yelling out the cats' names like a European sports announcer celebrating a goal unit at the local sports arena).

Like me, he's always had some health problems. When he was 10 he got an overactive thyroid that had to be zapped by radiation, and he's always been a bit of a puker. About 2 years ago he developed a distressing cough, caused by an enlarged heart, which we have been treating with twice daily pills and liquid medicine. He is always a trooper, letting me clip his nails and swallowing his pills without a peep.

He has become a favorite at the vets-- every time I bring him in the receptionists, techs and vets alike yell out his name, much like the roommate who christened him. The doctors have a hard time listening to his heart, as he purrs too loudly for them to use their stethiscopes. He is beloved by all who meet him, as well he should be.

And now he is not doing so well. His weight has dropped from 10.1 to 8.8 in a month and a half. He spends most of his time underneath the table in the upstairs game room. He is still enthusiastic about food, but he doesn't eat much of it. He is a shadow of his former self, but he still purrs everytime he sees someone.

My heart is breaking. The vet is hopeful, but you can tell when she calls that she's putting a more positive spin on his condition. But his bloodwork shows his kidneys are failing. I can't tell if he's in pain (if he is, he's hiding it well), but he's so skinny I can't look at him without getting depressed. I can't even think about him without tearing up.

What am I going to do when he gets worse? Every time I drive him to the vet, I worry that I won't be bringing him back, even though the vets have not given any indication that he is near terminal. Whenever they take him to the back room to draw blood or just take him on the rounds to all the employees, I have to fight hard not to cry.

But right now I'm alone in this hotel room down at the end of the hallway, so I don't have to find a place to hide before I start sobbing.

*He is part Burmese and does, in fact, not wear pants.