“And even when your hope is gone, Move along, move along just to make it through”

He sits on my lap and my heart embraces both absolute love and anguish. I stroke his back, feeling each vertebra to his hip bones. He cuddles into me, first on all fours with his head nudged against my tummy; then laying on his side and resting his head on my forearm. We both fidget and each time he stirs, I pray he won’t jump down. I want all of these moments. All of the time.

I gently stroke his back, accepting his warmth, remembering a time when he was pudgy and the running joke was he could feed a coyote family of four … for a week. That time is gone. His uncharacteristic matted white fur just covers his bones. He’s literally half his size at an astonishing seven pounds.

I reminisce his history, starting with the day my then-husband picked him out of an animal shelter in Oklahoma City. There had been one specification. The feline had to be female since I previously had to give up a male and couldn’t imagine reliving that heartbreak. My then-husband never previously had an “inside” pet and was stupidly excited about this Christmas present. He walked through the shelter surveying the four-legged babies needing homes and picked out a white ball of fur who fit so perfectly in his cupped hands. “That’s her. That’s Breezy,” he said. We filled out the forms, paid the adoption fee, and left her to be spayed. Several days later, I returned to pick up the tiny kitten only to have a back-and-forth with an official arguing the gender of the feline. Breezy became Blizzard Storm.

At two months old, he was ready to explore the world, eager for every experience and never complaining. His feline “big sister” enjoyed his company too, in a mischievous kind of way. First, she knocked him off the ledge of the second-floor loft. Then, off the sill into a filled bathtub. Blizzard simply shook his head and returned to her side. He was soon up to his own heists and one day anxiously awaited the opening of the refrigerator door. He saw opportunity. In a ninja fashion, the blinding blur of white poked his head and front paws inside, grabbed the deli sliced roast beef in its plastic packaging off the shelf. He darted clear across the room. I applauded his brilliance.

Later came the days when Blizzard’s human daddy moved out and simply decided not to take him saying, “the apartment doesn’t allow pets.” I shook my head at his callousness and with my own resolution said to myself, “You don’t deserve him.”

Four moves and two states later, Blizzard came into his own, adopting a mostly asshole-ish personality. Banging on closed doors with his front paws or biting noses and ears were his specialty. Both often occurred in the middle of the night. He also vomited. Any time. Anywhere. Any occasion. During the pandemic when I worked at home, he insisted on prancing around the desk and settling himself between me and the laptop keyboard. He was well known on Zoom. Always a good eater, he verbally demanded to taste test whatever was served, often pawing and biting the nearest human for seconds. His favorites were bacon, tuna, and banana nut muffins. But he also had his moments of utter love and often kissed me on the lips with his sandpaper-like tongue.

Months ago, just after his hyperthyroidism diagnosis, he traded his wicked ways and frequent vomiting for more cuddle time, establishing new routines. The pillows were moved away from the closed doors and he perched himself on me when I worked, watched TV, or crawled into bed. He became my shadow following me everywhere I went. Kenzie, the short black canine, adopted him as her best friend – initiating play, following him around the house, and also cuddling him.

I enjoyed this new normal. Until.

Over the past weekend, the kitchen floor had been spotted with red puddles. Most circular. Some large. Others no bigger than an quarters. Blizzard paced around and between them on his path to the litter box. When he stepped out of his bathroom, he created new puddles. Nearby were piles of vomit.

On Monday morning, Blizzard and I ventured to the vet where we were told this is “normal” for kidney disease. He was given a prescription for an oral antibiotic. Two days later, we returned after discovering a new path of bloody urine. Blizzard received a shot of antibiotics and fluids. As I checked him out, I asked the timeline of what we can expect for my sixteen-year-old baby boy with the most beautiful blue eyes.

Admittedly, I didn’t have the patience to wait for the assistant to dance around an answer. I wanted a concrete straight response. I tried to speed her along as she dilly-dallied with possibilities and hopefulness. My impatient brain caught two sentences in her monologue. At “His kidneys are failing,” my mouth lost its composure and moved independently from the rest of my face, contorting into demon possessed moves from a wayward grin to an arch of frowns. At “We just want to make him comfortable,” my eyes became blurry. I grabbed his carrier in a rigid yank and announced, “We have to go,” before charging out the door.

The flood gates broke. He mewed. I bawled. Outside of the clinic, my composure escaped me. On the beautiful sunny morning, my world went dark. I had convinced myself for more than a decade, he would outlive me. In the car, we gathered ourselves, determined to make the most of whatever we have left.

Epilogue: He is spoiled. Bacon, smoked salmon, and yes, peach cake are on the menu. We cuddle every evening for hours. We talk. I listen. He has a lot to say. Or, he naps. The vomiting returned, but I’m reminded he’s been eating like a fat kid with cake.

Blizzard passed on Aug. 3. While his spirit was strong, his body was giving up. My heart is broken.