Tony, the best, most affectionate cat who ever lived, lives no more except in my grieving heart. He died in my arms at 5:15 this afternoon. His passing was peaceful.

I came in from an errand this afternoon and checked on him, as I often do. This time, the news wasn’t good. He was in obvious distress. His breathing was labored, he was coughing, and his circulation was awful. He looked miserable. Choking back tears, I called the vet’s office and they agreed to see him immediately.

The doctor examined Tony and confirmed my fears. His lungs were full of fluid, his hematocrit was practically nonexistent, and his prognosis was extremely bad. He was in pain, and he was suffering. That was all I needed to hear. I told the doctor that it was time. She gave me a few minutes with him, to say goodbye.

What do you say to an old friend who’s dying? What else. I told him that I loved him. I spoke to him gently and kindly, stroking him and trying to comfort him as he lay there, exhausted. I thanked him for being such a brave and strong cat, fighting so hard to stay with me. I told him I was so sorry this had happened to him, and that I was sorry we couldn’t make him better, somehow. I told him I would miss him and think of him always, remembering him as a good and loyal friend and companion. He looked at me, smiled at me as best he could. He purred. I scratched him behind the ears, touched his face and nose in the way he liked, and gave him a kiss on the head.

The doctor came in. I told her we were ready, and held Tony close to me, petting him and whispering to him as the needle went in, hoping he’d stay calm. The injection was quick and painless. He stopped purring, and his breathing shallowed. His body gradually relaxed, and Tony was gone. The doctor left again, to give me time.

My first thoughts were, “My GOD, what have I done?” I allowed myself to simply grieve for a few minutes. I held him for a long time, hoping that I had done the loving, kind thing for him. Finally, after his long battle, he was at peace, and he looked beautiful, his orange fur shiny and soft, his body warm. His eyes were bright but vacant now, and I closed them gently. “Goodbye, my old friend. Sleep well.” I laid him down gingerly and pulled a warm blanket over him.

I walked out to the front desk sobbing, unable to find control for the moment. The receptionist was most kind, and told me to go on home, there were no details that couldn’t wait. I could barely see the road.

I arrived home, put Tony’s carrier away in the closet, and closed my eyes for a moment. I contacted a close friend and explained what had happened. We both cried. I wasn’t able to talk coherently for some time, but we shared an implicit understanding. Gradually I calmed down. The house seemed empty and quiet. B.B. was confused, wondering where his playmate was, and why I was so blue. He still doesn’t understand.

I was ready for this loss, I thought. Tony was seriously ill. Even though he’d made a miraculous comeback, I knew he wouldn’t have many more days with me. The months we’ve had together since he was diagnosed have been a gift that I had no right to expect, but was most happy to receive.

In my mind, it’s almost completely clear that Tony knew I needed him. He struggled bravely with this disease, keeping it at bay so that he could be by my side through the times when I couldn’t have managed without him. In light of recent changes in my life, he must have sensed my happiness and fulfillment. I think he knew that I would be all right, that the hurt and the emotional turmoil he’d been helping me with was over. He knew it would be all right for him to go now.

I selfishly don’t want to be without him. Tony will always have a special place in my heart, and I will miss him so desperately. He lives on in the memories of him that I will treasure. There are a million vignettes. I will marvel at the strength and the courage he displayed when he survived his encounter with a motorcycle. I’ll laugh at his annoyance with rowdy Bandit and little B.B. I’ll probably cry when I remember how he expressed his love. I will always smile, though, when I remember the tiny orange kitten, who leapt into my lap and into my life at a time when I least expected him. He showed me that often, what you don’t expect in life can be the very thing you need most.

Goodbye, Tony. Sleep well, old friend.