My favorite kitty cuddler, Buster, was 27 years old, about as old as a cat can be. One month his exam was very good health, a bit overweight. The next month he dropped 14 pounds and started falling over. I rushed him to the vet where his blood values were checked and it was decided he had gone into renal failure. I was told I could keep him alive with subcutaneous fluids. At that point I was shocked and in great denial, so yes, I began the subcutaneous fluids. He did well; I really think it made him feel better, needles or not. That was in November.

In February of the next year, my stepdad had a "massive" stroke. Everything was done, he was monitored constantly. Different procedures were tried, different medications. At one point he was alert enough to speak and visit with his children, his own family. I prayed and prayed for his healing; I even offered up "anything I have that he might live, even myself because he was a good man and deserved life more than I." Two days later the doctor told us he was dying, to come to the hospital to say goodbye. I spent the afternoon at the hospital, with him and with my mother, brothers and sisters, talking and trying to stay relatively calm. At 10 p.m., we agreed to go say goodbye and go home because Mom was obviously exhausted and my stepdad was obviously much worse.

At 11:45 p.m., I got to my own home, walked in the door, and found Buster the cat lying on the floor-cold and stiff-lifeless. I huddled over him, stroked his soft fur, and sobbed. Having two lives leave me in one day was just too much.

At 12:05 a.m., Mom called. Dad had passed just before midnight.

There is a cat who lives in a nursing home which knows when a human patient is going to die, sometimes even before the doctors do. I think Buster, my cat, may well have gone to help my stepdad, to give him courage as he left this world, possibly even because I offered anything I had to help. The thought that they might be together somewhere, chums, gives me a measure of peace.