So here it is. A little under an hour til midnight. I'm alone, on the computer, and in a less than ideal state.

To begin the serious of... craptastic events, I'll start with my cat. The rest I might fill in later.

I got Tiger when I was seven years old. It was after my mom's cat Christy had died of cancer and Bugs, our tuxedo cat, was lonely. I got to pick my very first "big" animal. (Meaning one with fur or feathers.) It was just after Easter and they had the Easter kittens and rabbits in a pen in this pet store we were in. And I saw him. This little fuzzball of absolute perfection. His very color cried out to me. A pumpkin kitty, a soft little orange tabby cat with white markings. Very young, and looking back he had probably been taken from his mother too soon.

I had to have him. He looked just like the kitten on this pencil sharpener I had, and I was convinced this meant I was destined to be his mommy. I can only hope now, so late in the game, that I was right.

He and Bugs bonded deeply. Tiger being so young, still had an urge to nurse, and Bugs, even though he was a male cat, let him nurse. Bugs put his weight back on that he had lost from Christy's death, and became playful again. He turned into a patient loving father cat to Tiger. Tiger definitely made the end years of Bug's life worthwhile.

Then Bugs lost control of his bowels quite suddenly. There was nothing we could do and he was miserable. We put him to sleep.

Tiger mourned Bugs, he'd lost his best friend and father, and anyone that has never had an animal can't possibly imagine how much they mourn.

Again, mom and I went to a pet shop, not looking for a kitten but finding one anyway. A beautiful little boy, lilac point ragdoll. Since he went limp every time he was picked up we obviously had only one choice of what to name him, given his breed: Rags.

Rags was two years old when he developed what the vet said was a rare disease in male cats called FLUTD. Which basically makes it impossible for a cat to pee. We treated him twice, and upon the third time around the vet told us that we either had to preform surgery which would leave Rags feeling uncomfortable the rest of his life and may not cure him, or we would have to put him to sleep. We made the only decision we thought was human, and let the vet do what he recommended, letting our little boy pass on.

Some months later, Tiger again in grieving, we found a little girl cat at a pound. She was quiet, timid, and very pretty. We took her home and named her Jack.

After I got a puppy for my thirteenth birthday, a large mutt you all know as Biscuit, Jack became a recluse, refusing to be near the dog. It happened slowly. First she just avoided him, then she avoided the living room, then she avoided the downstairs until suddenly she wouldn't even leave my mother's bedroom.

She always stayed thin and her fur had become a problem, turning into a matted mess. No matter how often she was brushed, her hair had developed this curly kinky quality that would not be tamed. Then came the skin disorders that the vet couldn't identify and the miracle shampoos and conditioners and brushes, etc etc...

Then she got sick. Very sick. We took her in and the vet told us she had a blockage in her intestines. Thinking that would be all, the vet told us he'd wash out her intestines and keep her overnight for observation. Worried, but trusting the vet, we left her the night. Everything went fine until a month later it happened again. Again we left her with the vet. Again we thought everything was alright, with a little less conviction than the first time.

A month later I woke up and Jack was gone. My parents were at work so I simply thought she was hiding out some where. Maybe got up enough guts to go downstairs and decided to stay in the basement, she liked it down there. Then I got a call from dad telling me to clean up and throw out all of Jack's things. I knew what it meant but I had to have him say it, so I asked way. He told me Jack had gotten incredibly sick the night before, throwing up everywhere, mewing, in terrible pain, so he had taken her in that morning and had her put down.

I spent two hours on the phone with Will crying.

That was this summer.

And now... My baby boy, my sweet, wonderful baby boy... My Tigger Willy... Is very sick... He's been sick for a while and we've battled it every way we know how. We spent hours at the vet the last time and both vets were in the room with us, because they love Tiger so much. They've done everything they can for my baby, I know that. They've mixed every cocktail of steroids and antibiotics imaginable. They've given us the food and the appetite stimulants, free of charge. They've been incredibly kind.

Tiger is 13 year old now. A sweet mouthy baby that loves to be held and patted. He still watches flied with amazement and gets excited when mom opens a can of food. Except now he doesn't chase the flies, or eat more than a few bites of food. He's lost a lot of control of his bowels, and he's lost too much weight. His fur has become faded with more than age, and I can smell the end of things in his fur.

Mom told me last week that we'll be putting his to sleep some time the beginning of this year. And my heart is screaming.

He's not just a cat to me, he's my baby. But as much as I want to have him with me forever, my want for him to not be in pain wins out. Tigger was my one true constant growing up. Cuddling me when I would cry and curling up on the bed with me when I was sick. Never caring how made I'd get, or how mean I could be. Always loving and tender and sweet.

I knew this would have to be the next entry I write in here, which I think is why I've put off writing. To write it is to admit what is about to happen. To admit to a huge chunk of my heart being ripped out of me.

I don't think anyone that has never truly loved an animal, never had that kind of bond can understand how much pain I'm in right now. Part of me doesn't know if anyone really understands my relationship with Tiger.

I've spent over a year preparing myself to let him go, and it hasn't helped one bit. If only he were so much different. If only he didn't still look at me with those big golden eyes. If only he didn't go crazy every time a can was opened or someone ate chicken, tuna, or turkey. If only he didn't have that same wonderful attitude. If only I could have that kind of justification that it's time.

To say that this is just something that's happening would be an understatement. I've cried myself to sleep several nights. Even writing this I'm sobbing. I don't get angry with him now, I hold him all I can, I pet him whenever I walk by and I go out of my way to let him sleep in bed with me even though he likes to leave my room about fifteen times a night. I'd rather not sleep than make him wish for a warm place to cuddle.

No matter what, this won't stop hurting for me. He's my baby. And I want my baby with me. My Tiger is dying. My heart is crushed.