Last week my friend Brian lost his dear cat Hobbes to complications of
kidney failure. He was barely ten years old.

Brian is the last of my friends to have stuck by me after meeting Louie.
(It takes a marriage to tell you who your friends are; I knew who the
bigots were PDQ.) In 1995 Brian moved to Florida with his partner Ian,
bought a house, and adopted Hobbes as the "inaugural cat." To Brian, a
lifelong animal lover, a house isn't a home until someone's purring in
it. Hobbes was a handsome and feisty fellow, lithe and beautifully
marked with distinct stripes, who was ornery until the very end. The
good ornery that is, the kind that says there is life yet to be had, and
strength. Then all at once, the poor fellow lost it, and collapsed in
his own litter box. The kidneys had won. He was only ten, and Brian and
Ian had had him from a tiny kitten.

I know my old buddy, how he tries to be pragmatic and says he's got the
stiff upper lip and he'd been preparing, blah-blah-blah bull. Who can
prepare for these things, even knowing it must come eventually? Brian's
devastated. Hobbes was, to him, the start of a new life and proof in his
eyes that he and Ian are a true couple. They were devoted to Hobbes,
making sure he had his medicines and fluid IV's, and loved him to
distraction. I didn't know Hobbes, but I knew he got the best of love
and care. Please purr a few for Brian and Ian, and their first furbaby
who hadn't been here long enough.

Blessed be,
Baha