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Some time around Memorial Day of 1994, my family rescued a litter of 4 kittens, only 4 weeks old. The girls were named Sasha and Poquita and the boys were Luke and Arnie. They were very sick and needed 24 hour supervision. They needed to be hand fed and medicated 3-4 times a day. When they were 3 months old, they were combo tested. The girls were negative, but Luke and Arnie came back positive. My vet retested Luke and Arnie. It was a bitter sweet time. Luke tested negative, but Arnie was positive. Not willing to give up, my vet called a R.N. who has a hospice for terminally ill cats. There's a very long waiting list, but upon hearing our story, we were told to bring him to her. We became close friends with her. We kept in touch constantly on the phone and by letters. I still remember the awful night I prayed would never come. Sunday night, October 23, 1994, we got a phone call from her. Arnie passed away in her arms that afternoon. That Monday, I cried in my friend's arms while the chorus sang "Lullaby" by Billy Joel. Thinking of that song still makes me cry for Arnie. The weekend before the 1 year anniversary of Arnie's death, Luke got sick. It was the same weekend that my grandfather died. We had to rush Luke to an emergency hospital. He had swallowed a piece of string. He had to undergo a life-threatening surgery or he'd die in 12 hours. We brought him back to our vet afterwards to recover and left for my grandfather's funeral. Fortunately, Luke survived and I believe it's because little Arnie was taking care of him. As much as I miss Arnie, it amazes me to realize how much more Luke misses him.