Roughly 18 years ago, Grace and I went to a local shelter to adopt a little black cat named Abracadabra. While we were there, Grace was talking with the shelter folks while I went into the room full of cats to meet Abby. I was sitting in a chair, and I picked up another cat and sat her on my lap, where she stayed. That other cat was named Feralina, and she came home with us that night, too.

Abby and Feralina were both traumatized cats who were formerly feral. They both struggled with socializing and were generally terrified of people. It took us hours and hours of sitting quietly in with them to get them to come out, even around us. And yet, over time, they grew to love us, and cuddle with us. Abby became attached to Grace in a way that I had previously never seen a cat become attached to a person – I have since seen it again when Bindle, our newest cat, bonded with me the same way.

Feralina, meanwhile, became basically the sweetest lap cat you can imagine – if by “lap” you mean “neck,” since that seems to be where she prefers to lay. A few years ago, we lost Abby, but Lina is still with us. She’s around 20 years old, and we’ve had her for roughly 18 of those.

She predates the publication of my first book. She predates this website. She predates my first professional story sale. She predates our first home purchase, and she certainly predates this place where we live now.

She has been with us through several changes of home and career, through many life transitions. She has been with us almost half my life.

For a few years now, we’ve been expecting that the end was getting close. 20 years is a ripe old age for a cat, after all. We were thrilled when Feralina was able to accompany us to our new home, and equally thrilled that she seemed to thrive in the little “apartment” we set up for her here, separate from the other cats.

She lives in the media room, and curls up on my chest pretty much any and every time I watch movies in there. She has a little perch in the window, and lots of beds, including a heated “saucer” that she is in pretty much any time she isn’t laying on me. She likes to tuck her face into my hand when I’m holding her, and she likes to try to steal my food, especially if I’m eating chips.

But the end is drawing near. Yesterday, we learned that she has GI cancer and the prognosis is months, if that. Judging by how she’s doing, I imagine her time is even shorter.

It’s going to be a terrible blow, but also one that we’ve had a lot of time to get ready for. For her last days, however many of them there may be, we’ll just keep her as happy and as comfortable and as loved as possible, and be grateful for all the years we were lucky enough to give her a home.

We love you, Feralina.