Boy

Robb talks about having to put down his cat, which reminds me of my own experience. I am not a "cat person," or at least I wasn't until about 9 years ago. That was when my (now) ex-wife brought home a seven year old cat that she rescued from the shelter. Not being a cat person, I largely ignored him. I wouldn't even name him, I just called him boy cat. That was when he decided that I was to be his human.
Over the next eight years, that cat was a constant companion: he would nap with me on the couch, he would sit on my desk as I worked or surfed the internet, he would follow me around the house. He loved food, and and became so fat that his belly would sway to and fro when he ran. He used to sit on my chest while I laid on the couch, and he would tap me on the chin each time he wanted a treat, and I obligingly gave him one. He was a sweet, loving animal. He was my friend. Eventually, boy cat became Mr. Boy, and that was his name.
Four years after we got him, he began vomiting. A lot. The vet couldn't find anything wrong. He ruined several pieces of furniture. After a year or so of this, the vomiting stopped and we thought he was getting better. Then he began losing weight. He became rail thin.
Then came the day, last fall, that the diarrhea began. It became more and more frequent. His teeth began breaking. Then, one morning, I couldn't get him to stand, he was weak. He just laid there, looking at me, so weak that he couldn't even raise his head.
We took him to the vet, and the diagnosis was cancer. We had to put him down.

That was last September, and I still get teary eyed when I think about him. I miss my friend.