Jake died two days ago. JC and I took him to the vet for the last time, absolutely sure that we were doing the right thing. It's difficult to understand if you don't have a pet, but we could see that he was sick. His coat was roughened, he wasn't eating--even his favorite, shrimp, or 'people' tuna. He was coming down the stairs, one at a time, instead of his usual race to beat me to the bottom. Even more, he lost interest in our activities. He curled up in the guest room, only emerging occasionally out of habit. He'd carefully come downstairs, walk into the kitchen, then turn around and go back upstairs, or maybe just lie down on the living room rug, exhausted. He kept trying to do what we expected of him, but it got harder and harder, till he just couldn't do it anymore. Anyone else might not have noticed, but we knew Jake wasn't Jake anymore. Who knows what it cost him to keep jumping onto my lap, or onto my bed to watch over me at night? He tried so hard.

We all know people who try to spare us from their suffering: parents, friends, spouses who don't want us to realize their pain, who want to pretend for our sakes that everything is fine. Pets do that too. Jake did. Mama Cat actually went so far as to run away, but she thought better of it and came back after a day or so. Another cat, Brindle, hid behind the furnace when he was no longer able to carry on. None of the subterfuge works. When you love someone, you can tell when something's wrong. It all boils down to the question of when we can let them go. We reached that decision over the weekend.

If the truth were told, I didn't cry for Jake. I cried for me, without him. I still open the door, expecting to see him on the stairs. I still flip on the kitchen light in the morning, expecting an impatient yowl for his breakfast. And when I turn out the lights at night, I still tell him goodnight. Habit, I know, but a lingering one. He is still here, in all the little habits he ingrained in me, and in all the bits and pieces he left behind.