It is not like I see her all that often. It is not like she is a daily part of my life.

But, I cannot stop the flow of tears. She has brought such a quality to our lives, and she nursed my mother with affection up until the end.

Dad called me on Friday, to tell me that Friskey isn't doing so hot. She misses her litter box, and cries incessantly...sometimes it seems like her front paws do not quite work. He said he didn't feel like the decision was his to make because she is my cat, my ninth birthday present. At the time, I advised that maybe he should take her to the vet, perhaps there existed a treatable ailment...and if not, well we would know what had to be done.

I went to see her yesterday. I crawled back to the corner where she rested and talked to her. She wobbled the foot it took her to get from beneath the wingback chair to my petting hand. Closing her eyes, she leaned back and let me love her, forcing a faint purr out of an old throat. She does not clean herself anymore, and she does not move far before she lies down and dozes off again. Only then did I grow emotional, understand the full choice ahead of me. This animal so dear to my heart, so full of love still, and I had to make the call whether or not she should be put down. So much like my mother, her body is breaking down while her spirit thrives.

I got home and watched Sophie run around, almost like a rubber ball, bouncing from couch to chair, against the wall, to couch...and I sobbed. Such a contrast to the listless animal I had just caressed. I don't know if Nick really gets the tears...I know that I don't. I am an adult, and have taken a lot harder hits in the last few years than an elderly cat...truth is, I do not have a vivid memory of my life when Friskey wasn't there. She was always a constant, a lap cat who loved her family, allowed a little girl to wrap her in blankets and push her around in strollers, and smothered us in purrs when someone was crying. I found myself losing my bravado as I asked to Dad or Nick, or whoever could answer, "Will it hurt?"

Happy birthday, Sophie! We adopted you six months ago, and the vet that your foster mommy had taken you to said at the time that you were approximately six months old. We stressed for so long about your age, Sophie, often wondering if you would have adjusted better to domestication had you been younger. You did not trust us, often running from the sight of us. I knew you lived here only because your litter box regularly required attention. When I took you to the vet for the first time, I asked Nick to come home and help me catch you. You still had so much "wild" in you. It was difficult for me; I am sure it was worse for you.

We paid extra attention when a pet pro spoke on talk radio on the subject of antisocial cats. We believed that was you, Sophie: antisocial. You wouldn't sit in plain sight of us. You never made so much as a peep. You treated us as potential predators. You are resting in my lap and purring as I type this. My, how things have changed.

You spend a lot of time rolling on your back. People tell me that you must feel secure. People tell me that you must be happy. I know that you are both of these now. I have this picture hanging outside my desk at work. People I don't even know stop to look at it and tell me how adorable you are. Pft. Like I don't know. You fell asleep purring in my arms the other night and I nearly cried.