The Nashville Cat was almost nineteen years old- in Kitty Years that is ancient. She was arthritic and had been becoming weaker over the past three months. She didn't seem to be in pain- she still ate quite a bit and often, but other than that she mostly slept. I knew the time was coming when the decision would have to be made and the action taken. Perhaps I was a coward for putting it off so long.

I fed her as usual this morning but didn't have time to stay- I had several jobs lined up, so I was out the door without paying much attention to her. I did stand a moment and watch her chowing down on some turkey slices (she loved turkey).

My girlfriend called me about an hour later- my Kitten was bleeding from the mouth. Badly. She wasn't doing too well- I needed to haul ass home.

I made the decision long before I walked in the door- I knew deep down I'd let my Kitten Cat linger too long. I knew deep down today would be the day I'd have to pass judgment on my best friend's life.

I was right.

Funny how the traffic seems to choose such moments to really stack up in front of you- all the way home and all the way to the kitty clinic I seemed to be moving in slow motion, and I'm absolutely certain I hit every single red light on the road. Still, when I finally got her to the clinic things happened in a calm, orderly manner, and me and Kitten Cat were soon in a quiet room, waiting for the doctor.

It was a tumor, the doctor said, under the tongue, and it had ruptured. Given her age it was likely not the only one, and no operation would help. We all knew what the best thing to do was, and after paying my 30 pieces of silver to the nurse the procedure was begun.

As I held my sweet Kitten in my arms the first injection was given, and she was asleep in seconds. They told me they would let her rest for ten minutes before the final injection, and they left me alone with my old companion as she slept, me gently hugging her to my chest.

I whispered to her, talking to her of all the good times we'd had- how she'd appeared upon my doorstep one summer morning so long ago, and had lept into my arms and sunk her tiny claws right into my heart. How she quickly became Queen of her domain. How she had been a champion mouser. How she would sleep the night away on my chest, gently purring sweet dreams into me. How she loved to climb on anything and everything. How she stayed loyal to me over the years as I moved from place to place and from state to state. How she never once disappeared, not even for a single night, in all the time we were together. How when she went out and got herself motherized I prepared a nice old box full of soft rags for her and put it in the bedroom closet, and how on the night her children came forth I sat on the floor beside the box all night, petting her and talking to her and helping with the incredibly tiny fuzzballs that she gave to me. And how those kittens grew and were given their own hoomans and went on to lead lives of their own.

The doctor eventually came back in, and soon it was over. My Kitten Cat arose and walked across the Rainbow Bridge, and all her pain was done.

We'll meet again one day, my Kitten and me. On the day it's my turn to walk across the Bridge she'll be waiting there for me, in her place as the best and most loyal friend I ever had.

But in the meantime, her corner is now empty, and all that's left is a hole in my heart and a memory that will never ever die.

Goodbye, my Kitten. I'll miss you.