Fourteen years ago, a small white Persian cat snuggled up against me in bed. He belonged to my ex, but he wanted my ex to accept me because we had just started dating and so he tried to make me feel special. He wanted me to stay around. There was almost no room on that little double bed, because both my ex and I were still poor, but he stretched out his back and pushed his furry back up against me to cover mine entirely. He knew even then how to make me comfortable.
We bonded instantly. He was a stunningly beautiful white Persian, straight out of the Bond films, but he had the temperment and devotion of a dog. He growled when strangers rang the doorbell. He followed me around the house. He talked to me all the time in a lilting voice. He was the ultimate spooning cat, soft and fluffy and impossibly loyal. He met me at the door every day.
It got so crazy that when my ex and I eventually split, she blamed the cat for taking my affection away from her. She said, "you've made me hate cats." I was so shocked that I didn't even know what to say. Honestly. It was her cat. But Sasha had decided to come over to me and he would jockey for space in our own bed. He was always ferociously loyal and affectionate and genuine. It's impossible to resist this level of devotion from any animal.
Times were not always easy -- I rescued him from certain death from a bladder infection that could have killed him in 24 hours back when he was only 10. When he developed diabetes several years later, I learned how to administer insulin, take readings and maintain his blood sugar level. I still almost lost him twice, when he was age 18, to a freak incident of ketoacidosis, but the vets brought him back from the edge, and I nursed him back to health. He was fine and happy and healthy.
When I put my 5-year-old daughter, Nicolle, to bed each night, Sasha would always make the long trek upstairs, very slowly, at the age of 19, and sit by her bed and talk to us. Nicolle would ask why he did this and I would say, "why do you think he does it, sweetheart?" "Because he loves you," she replied. "That's right, honey, but I think he loves us both." I would say, "he knows that you are the love of my life. But he wants to be here when I am done putting you to bed so he and I can spend some time together."
Sasha died tonight at the age of 19.
He was sitting in the living room, let out a sigh, and collapsed.
It was swift and painless. Nicolle cut out a heart, colored it red, and placed it on top of him.
I will bury him in the morning.



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