Maybe it’s silly to get so upset over the death of a cat. But this one was around for eighteen years, which is very close to half my life. He had a good last day today.

Well, our boy turns 18 in a little less than a month. Born in a small town in Georgia, he has weathered every one of our family moves (to Atlanta, to D.C., to KC) with admirable aplomb. It’s tough when you’re a youngster and your parents make all the decisions, especially when those decisions mean leaving behind everything you’ve known and relocating to new places. I know because that’s what my childhood was like. Other 18-year-olds are heading off to college right about now, but not him. He’s a cat. We went to the vet today, and it turns out he’s lost about a sixth of his body weight. He’s also drinking and peeing all the time, but we don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s not in any pain, and his behavior is otherwise the same. He purrs when you pet him. On Wednesday we should learn the results of the blood test. Fingers crossed. According to a poster at the vet, 18 cat years is equivalent to 88 human years.