Anybody who met Mikan would say he had a big heart. An eternal mama's boy and a sweet purrer, Mikan didn't have a mean bone in his body. He was friendly to everyone, good-natured, amusing, empathic. He was the reason that, even (and especially) if I'd had a bad day, I could at least come home knowing that we'd have each other. I didn't mind my growing reputation as a cat lady, because I loved him purely and knew that he prefered me to all others. He came to me as a sick kitten, I nursed him to health, and he grew up to become a happy, robust cat. We were a great team.
Like I said, he had a big heart. In the end, it was that big heart—an enlarged heart, to be precise—that stopped him. Literally overnight, he went from being a healthy kitty to having raspy breathing. I took him to the veterinarian, who hours later told me that I had a "very sick kitty." An hour later, an hour outside the city at a suburban veterinary specialist, I learned that he was not only a very sick kitty, but one with incurable heart failure. I fell to the ground and wept. Faced with the choice to keep him alive on kitty life support or to let him go peacefully, I chose the latter.
We had a few last moments together, and I told him how much I loved him while he let out abbreviated, staccato purred breaths. When the doctor gave him the final injection, I gently stroked his pretty orange head while his life slipped away. He was not just a wonderful cat, he was a great cat, and I will always treasure his memory.
>> Miki-chan, noble feline and beloved best friend. 2001—2005
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