We lost one of our (two) cats this morning.  It was very unexpected.  I never would have thought that I expected to be affected this strongly.

She had cat AIDS, or something weird like that, where she was allergic to everything.  It caused her body to attack itself.  She spent the first part of her life living with us as a bare-assed cat. (She lived with Mel for like 6 years, before she moved in with us.)  Seriously--weirdest ratty looking nekkid tail and ass--like one of them baboons.  People would come over, and she'd be all, "Hey, pet me," and they'd give her the stink eye.  But she inevitably won them--and maybe me--over. 

Her old vet said she had fleas.  Whatever.  Our vet helped her out significantly--but it was better living through chemistry--and love--no doubt.

She was a perfect lap cat for Tiff. Cover yourself with a small blanket, and Bailey was there--if you were Tiff. Bailey seemed to hate feeling the baby move--but she loved sitting on Tiff's lap--so that always seemed to leave her with something to work out.  Was the movement worth it?  It seems to me that it usually was.

It's heart wrenching to lose a pet.  I've been there, and that's why I don't keep pets anymore. But it's agonizing to watch your wife deal with her lost pet, and to feel so helpless and worthless, because you can't make it better.

"Bailey--you'll be missed, but I bet kitty heaven rocks." - Tiff