My cat of twelve years died on my birthday. He had been sick with Triaditis for about 6 weeks and I had to feed him through a tube 3 times a day. Each time would take about an hour and a half.

He was getting better, too. Putting on weight, and ate his own meals for 5 days. But the E-tube got infected and so we took it out 2 days early.

He got home. He vomited. He stopped eating for two days. He started vomiting and acted in pain and so I took him in again. They discovered fluid in his abdomen. He was too skinny from his digestion issues for a further hospitalization and he was in pain.

He slept each night in my armpit with his head on my shoulder.

I worked from home before the pandemic, and so I was with him almost all of the time for his life. I loved his tiny 6 lb ass.

He was a bathroom communist. It could be 3 a.m. and I could check that he was asleep, and when I looked up from sitting on the toilet, the door would be slightly ajar and he'd be in front of me watching the door.

I miss you, little dude.

https://imgur.com/a/1A5PmTa