In October of 2014, I got a call from James, my fiance.

“Hey, so I have some news to tell you.”

“Okay…”

“We’re gonna have a cat.”

His first week home.

Someone at James’s work passed away. In their will, they unexpectedly bequeathed to James, Darwin: a ten year old cat.

Even though we were not prepared for a cat, we always knew we were going to keep him. If we did not take him, he’d have to go to a shelter, and we all know what they do to ten year old cats in shelters. And if that didn’t happen, his odds of adoption was almost zero.

I was living with my family at the time and couldn’t take Darwin. James was renting a room in a house so Darwin became his roommate.

Darwin was an overweight twenty-one pounds when we got him. He had lived in an apartment by himself for several months prior. Darwin’s owner was hospitalized for a long time, so someone would come maybe once or twice a day and fill his bowls.

For months, that was all his human contact.

Then he was ours.

I was working at New York Comic Con the day we were taking Darwin home. I ran from the Javits Center to Port Authority to meet James. When I saw James, he was holding a very old wooden carrier with a very unhappy and loud orange cat.

We got on the bus and took turns opening the cage and petting him. He meowed loudly and constantly. And, as would later be our catchphrase for him, would say, “You’re very upset!”

He was very upset, but he was ours.

The first night in James’s apartment, Darwin hid behind a PS3 on a shelf and wouldn’t come out.

But that soon changed.

James and our first week with Darwin.

Darwin loved people. Anytime someone new came over, he was quick to investigate and then even quicker to flop next to them to get a good pet or scratch.

Darwin didn’t know how to play Scythe, but he tried his best.

When James and I played board games or had people over for a game night, Darwin made sure that he was not forgotten.

He’d jump up on the table or onto the board to make his presence known or paw at your legs so he could jump into your lap, even if you were a brand new person.

If there was anything that Darwin did the best, it was love. Darwin loved.

And he was loved.

In October of 2016, Darwin stopped eating and hid under our bed; we knew something was very wrong and that he was very sick.

We took him to the vet.

Over the next week, we had to inject him with subcutaneous fluids because he was so dehydrated. The process is simple — you hang up an IV bag and stick your cat with a needle in what is basically a pouch of excess skin they have on their upper back so they can absorb it directly into the body. The process is not easy to do— pets do not like to be held, poked, and forced to sit still, but Darwin always let us.

Then after an expensive operation to remove some teeth and pills for his kidneys, he got better. He started eating and drinking and was no longer hiding from us.

He got better.

Christmas Eve after his operation. He is a very happy pink-nosed reindeer!

As I’m writing this, Facebook reminded me that Darwin’s health was always something we were concerned about. Within months of getting him, Darwin was constantly throwing up, had odd eating habits, and just other peculiarities. This could all have been attributed to his recent upheaval; he’s still getting use to this new life and cats do this stuff when they’re stressed.

But we wanted to be sure, and:

Thankfully, this was remedied relatively simply. They gave him an enema (which he did not enjoy), a little laxatives in his food for the next week or so, and a change in diet.

Then he was fine.

He always ended up being fine.

Darwin couldn’t eat pizza, but he’d try. (Also, yes, I’d eat James’s crust.)

Last year, on November 1st, the day before my birthday, I got a call from my father at 4:29AM, “Come over now.”

Within twenty minutes, I was over at the house I grew up in. The paramedics have just stopped performing CPR on my mother. The defibrillator was now silent.

An EMT came up to me and asked, “Are you her son?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to say that your mother has passed.”

This isn’t an essay about my mother and her death; that’s something I’ve been working on for a year and have not come close to completing.

But this is an essay about Darwin.

And to say that Darwin has helped me cope with my mom’s loss is an understatement. We would just cuddle and Darwin would purr and I could be as loud or as ugly and as vulnerable as I needed to be.

There is something profound about an animal’s sense of empathy and understanding. Without Darwin, the month after my mom’s death would have been unbearable.

And I hope that he knows that. I hope he knows how much he helped me.

Darwin on his way to the vet after his seizure.

In March of this year, Darwin had some kind of seizure. He collapsed on the floor and couldn’t move and just meowed very loudly for about thirty seconds.

He seemed more frightened than anything but after the ordeal was over he got up and was fine.

A vet visit and a couple of tests later confirmed nothing out of the ordinary or unexpected: kidney issues, but that’s why we were giving him pills.

He was okay.

Over the past several months, Darwin didn’t stop eating, he just ate a little less. He was losing some weight but nothing too noticeable and nothing too extreme. There would even be days where he would eat everything.

But there came a week where we noticed that he was eating significantly less and sometimes not at all.

And we did what we always did, and took him to the vet.

Darwin going to the vet.

Our vet gave us fluids and instructions for his care while we waited for the results and to observe if anything changed.

Nothing improved.

He still wasn’t eating that much and when he did, he’d usually vomit it up afterwards.

After talking to her about our possible options and what she saw in the tests, we knew what we had to do.

This time Darwin was not going to be okay.

And we would have to put him to sleep.

I don’t even know what to type. I don’t even know what this is. Or why I’m typing this.

I’m just really sad.

Darwin doesn’t know that in a couple days, we’re going to put him to sleep forever.

He won’t understand what’s happening or why we’re taking him to the scary vet.

We’ll hold him and tell him it’s all going to be okay. And that he won’t be dehydrated or starved anymore. That he won’t get worse. That he won’t be in pain anymore.

And we’ll pet him one last time.

Then he’ll die.

Trying to stay cool in the summer.

It’s just hard to know if we’re doing the right thing.

No.

James and I know we’re doing the right thing.

We know Darwin isn’t well. We know he hates us sticking him with a needle as we fill his body with liquid that his kidneys no longer think he needs. We know that he won’t ever let us know how much discomfort he is in.

We know that it is better to make sure he doesn’t suffer. We don’t want him to have another seizure. We don’t want him to be hungry or thirsty. We don’t want him to endure the fluids if they’re not truly helping.

Darwin on his litter box after he’s lost a lot of weight.

But he still paws at my face at night so he can sleep under the covers with me. He still comes up to me to get scratches. He still seems very much like Darwin.

And I think that’s for the best. Darwin is going to get worse; that is an inevitability of his condition.

I don’t want him to hide from us again. I don’t want him to feel anymore pain.

When I pet him, I feel his bones more than I ever have. He is slowly withering away; he is dying.

Each night when James and I inject him with the fluids is a battle. He is unhappy and uncomfortable and gets more agitated with every passing time. If he was getting somewhat better with the fluids, if he started eating or becoming more active or anything, we’d be having a different conversation. However, what was a potential treatment for his kidney disease is now only a tourniquet.

So we know we’re doing the right thing, but it feels so absolutely terrible.

We discovered Darwin’s love for pizza when we first moved into our apartment.

I was never those, “Pets are family people.”

It’s just not something I’ve ever understood, and part of it was because I never really had pets growing up, and I never planned on having any either because of my severe allergies.

And then, of course, Darwin comes into our lives and now I remember to always take my allergy medicine.

Over the past couple of years, I’ve grown to love Darwin more than I ever thought I was capable of loving an animal.

I spend a lot of time home, so most of the past four years in this apartment, I’ve spent with Darwin. James and I just celebrated nine years together this month, and Darwin was there for half of our relationship.

Darwin has become such an integral part of our lives. He is family.

I love him.

Darwin making sure I stay warm.

This past summer, Darwin escaped our apartment. He opened two doors! He was a very curious and stubborn cat.

And it was the most scared I’ve ever been in my entire life. I was outside shouting for him like I was Stanley in Streetcar, “DARWIN!?!?!”

He was in the backyard in some brush. He ran away the first couple of times I got close, and he was hissing at me — the first time he’s ever hissed at me. He must have got scared by something out there because he would not let me grab him. I got a towel and wrapped it around him, and he fought me hard.

Once I got him inside, he acted like nothing happened; everything was okay.

And it was, except for all the blood dripping from my arms and legs.

But everything was okay, and I would do everything I could to make sure Darwin was never scared or hurt again.

Darwin, successfully, trying to get my attention while I’m on the computer.

This morning we put Darwin to sleep.

We went to the vet’s office, and they were so wonderful and nice and kind and compassionate. We got into the room and had a couple minutes with him.

The vet came in and talked to us and reassured that this was the correct and kind thing to do. She explained the process, first a sedative is injected and takes about five minutes to completely set in and then another shot is administered which will stop the heart almost instantly.

Darwin resting on our bed under his blanket.

Darwin was not happy about getting the first shot, but we had his favorite blanket in the cage, so she used that to cover him while giving Darwin the sedative.

This calmed him down, and the vet left him with us. We got him out of the cage. He was losing control of his muscles and became almost limp. James and I were petting him constantly and telling him what a great cat he was.

And we picked him up one last time.

And we cried.

We cried a lot. And we’re still crying. He was still purring. He could still hear us. He was still there.

The vet then came back in and asked us if she could continue, “Yes.”

The first vein was not cooperating, and James and I laughed, “Darwin never liked to make things easy.”

The vet went to the other side of the table and administered the final injection. James and I were petting him the entire time and telling him that everything was okay and that we love him. She took out her stethoscope and listened to his heartbeat. After about twenty seconds she said, “He’s gone.”

And our wonderful ornery fifteen year old kitten was dead.

But, he’s okay.

He’s okay.

And James and I will be okay.

Darwin crawled into James’s arms. I had to take a picture when I saw it.

My mom always told me, “Steven, when I die, I want you to laugh at my funeral. You’ll be sad, you can’t stop that. But if you can find time to laugh, laugh.”

That wisdom helped me cope so much through the past year, and it’s been a vital crutch these past couple of days.

The pain is still very real and raw. Coming home after the vet with an empty carrier broke my heart, and not needing to find what hamper he was hiding in made cry.

But I’m smiling when I can because I know that’s what she and Darwin would want. Nothing about mourning is easy. It’s ugly and painful. It’s full of moments of healing and days of regression.

You still have to try.

Darwin learned how to get his dry food when it wasn’t dinner time.

There isn’t much more to say.

Tomorrow is Christmas. James and I were afraid we would have to celebrate it without him, and that fear has come true. However, I get to celebrate it with the love of my life and my amazing brothers and father. I will still surround myself with love because that is what heals this hurt.

Life happens and it can be terrible, but it always moves forward, so you have to move on.

There are a lot of people I miss. I miss my mom. I miss Darwin.

However, there are a lot people I love.

And I will love them.

For Darwin.