A lost son.

We had to put our kitty Coleman to sleep last night. He had advanced lung cancer and several broken ribs and was struggling to breath. It was hard to let him go because he was purring to the end. His mother, Mama Kitty, is trying to tell us that he's missing. She meows and leads me to their room, sits on her bed, and looks at me, like "See, he's not here. Where is he? Go find him." It breaks my heart. We got to say goodbye. She didn't.

We explained everything to the kids except the "putting to sleep" part. They knew he was sick and that he wasn't going to live much longer. They understand the idea that at some point, our bodies just won't work anymore. They think we should get another cat to keep Mama Kitty company. Nice sentiment except that Mama Kitty doesn't really play well with others. Coleman was the lover. Mama is the fighter.

Colman was 15 years old. He loved his people and his furry friends. He adored Kizzy and has quickly bonded to Gumbo. They often slept fur to fur. They lounged in the sun together and took comfort in each others company. He lived in all three states with us, and seemed to take to the Pullman snow more quickly than the rest of us. He was a fat cat, weighing in at 15 pounds, and he had a meow that would make your hair stand up on your neck. When he was meowing at the vet yesterday, the tech asked me if that was what I meant by "breathing weird." I said, "No, that's just his normal meow." And he looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"He's a cool cat," the vet said after spending some time examining him. "Yes," I said, "tolerant, loving, and clearly very tough. We'll miss him."

And we do.