My cat’s name is Kitty, not because my family isn’t creative, but because he was a stray that we didn’t think we’d keep.  I scooped the little fuzzball from the snow when I was 12 and took him in, fed him, and kept him warm. The clichéd “Here, kitty kitty” eventually became his name, though he earned a multitude of nicknames throughout the years including “Fat Clemenza” and “Bubby.” He’s been through so much with me: my parents’ divorce, and especially the deaths of my grandparents, and he’s my shadow, sitting outside with me as I paint, watching me write, and cuddling with me when I watched Christmas movies alone.

On Monday, I received word my little old man has kidney failure. Since June, I’ve had my suspicions about his condition, and now my fears have been confirmed. My vet insists that this isn’t the end and that he can live for a few more years even (!) with the proper diet and plenty of hydration. But still, my nerves are shot, especially since this picky ol’ man doesn’t like his renal diet and wants to stuff his face with junk. Hopefully, I can make more memories with my buddy. I’m not ready to say good-bye yet.

Let’s see how this goes! I’m working on a portrait of his furry face.