(I think I wrote this more for myself than all of you wonderful readers, but I don’t mind sharing.)

It’s possible my level of compassion is below normal, but usually when I hear of someone’s pet dying, particularly after a long life, it doesn’t really yield the same reaction as when a human family member dies. I’d imagine most of us are this way, that we value human life significantly above that of an animal. (Unless we’re watching a movie.) In some way, if it’s not your pet, a creature with four legs seems comparatively disposable. And yet, we often spend more time with our ever reliable pets than with human loved ones. They are there at home when no one else is, never judging and always a source of warm companionship. When we have to say goodbye, as I had to this morning, they are the strong ones while we often weep like young children.

Johnnie came into my life over seven years ago. He was part of the package of domesticity provided by my better half, who had literally dreamed of a little orange and white ball of fur nine years earlier and found him the following day sitting inside a shelter cage just as he’d been in her dream. That was the cat for her and, eventually, Johnnie was the cat for me too. I missed his younger years but she had plenty of stories to tell me. There was the one of a too curious Johnnie getting pecked on the nose to the point of bloodshed by her pet bird (and never bothering the latter again apparently). I’ve seen pictures of him wearing this hideously funny children’s shirt that had pictures of baby chickens all over it. He didn’t seem as thrilled by that as everyone else. Johnnie also used to burrow himself under the bed covers for maximum comfort. All pet owners have memories like these, and they always seem more entertaining the closer you are to the animal.

By the time I did finally meet Johnnie he was as sweet and mischievous as ever, but he’d recently been diagnosed with feline diabetes. This would require the poke of a syringe into his little cat body every twelve hours for the rest of his life. Johnnie hardly minded. The somewhat frequent visits to the veterinarian bothered him much more, and it wasn’t uncommon for the brave but nervous fella to soil himself on the way. He never liked to leave the comfort zone of our apartment. Johnnie had such a good temperament but even the mildest threat of a doctor visit (real or imagined by him) could trigger the quick, almost involuntary creation of puddles or piles of waste on the floor. Baths weren’t his thing either.

His diabetes was kept under control by almost constant care and, I like to think, a good amount of love. But as Johnnie got older things didn’t seem to work as well as they once did, particularly his digestive system. That required another daily medicine, a liquid that must have tasted horrible since he clearly did not like having the substance more or less shot down his throat every night. I was worried as to why he couldn’t properly digest the special diabetes management dry food he’d been taking for years without incident, but the medicine was mostly effective. More bothersome was the loss of muscle mass Johnnie had experienced slowly but surely. He had been a big, robust cat at one point. I’ve seen him almost flaunt his girth by laying on his back with a furry white belly proudly facing upward. Even at the end he still liked to eat. I’d introduced him to cold cuts and he never looked back. In my mind he’s now in some kitty afterlife enjoying a deli tray of thinly sliced meat while sharpening his front claws (one of his favorite habits). Dinner plates seemed to require an investigation from our Johnnie cat in later years.

His increasingly bony frame did concern me. At this point he was already fifteen or so years old and we’d decided that putting him through any sort of treatment for cancer or the like was out of the question. His quality of life was always the main priority. Physically, Johnnie would sometimes limp after hopping out of the litter box and his attempts to jump on the bed were occasionally unsuccessful. (Not deterred, he’d usually try again right away and have better luck.) The signs of his deterioration were starting to be more obvious, but the spark in this cat’s eye was blindingly bright. His actions always indicated he was happy and full of life. Over the course of my time with Johnnie he’d provided the loyal devotion I normally associate with a dog rather than the enigmatic, often selfish nature typical of a cat. Nothing had changed in that regard nor would it.

His most recent trip to the vet also yielded positive signs, indicating that his diabetes, in the seven years since he’d been known to have it, had never been under control any better. In some irrational part of my mind I started to wonder just how long Johnnie could go. Another year? Two? Would he make it to twenty? I must’ve fooled myself into thinking he was in great shape. Then came this past Saturday night. I was home alone and heard something in the other room. Now I figure he must have tried to jump on the bed but not made it. When I got in there I saw Johnnie wobbling off balance but trying to fight it. After what couldn’t have been more than a minute or two he seemed to collapse, awake but with the side of his face and body against the floor. His mouth was open and he was struggling to breathe. I was scared. My initial fear was that he was dying in front of my eyes. I then watched him gradually regain his breath but remain on the floor hardly moving beyond the very labored breathing. About fifty minutes later, he got up, seemingly fine. Nothing the rest of the night indicated anything had been wrong.

Of course, we knew this had been a serious attack of some kind. Maybe we didn’t want to believe just how serious the problem was, but taking him to the doctor on a Sunday wasn’t really an option. An almost identical episode followed the next night and it was clear he needed immediate medical attention. Johnnie was less active than usual the rest of the night and eventually made his way over to the floor on her side of the bed when it was time to go to sleep. I probably should’ve better prepared myself for the idea that when we took Johnnie to the doctor’s office this morning he might not be coming home again but maybe it was for the best. Fluid surrounded his lungs. There was nothing anyone could have done Saturday night, Sunday night or today. I know we did the best thing for everyone but I still miss my cat. I miss my friend.