The dreaded day had finally come. My beloved and devoted fluffy brown and buff kitty had to take one last trip to the vet.

The decision didn’t come easy.

Cody had been a member of a group of 28 cats owned by an elderly lady who had become a cat hoarder. Her deteriorating mind had forced her to move into a nursing home, and one of her friends set out to find homes for each of the kitties left behind.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t adopt another cat for quite some time – another beloved kitty, Muff the Maine coon, had to be put down (such a mild term for something so awful) just a couple of weeks before I met Cody. Muff was the cat who taught me that I really did like felines, something I had denied for years. My sister kept telling me that I did like cats. After all, we had had many as we grew up in our old farmhouse. But they were outside cats, they never came in. So for years, I denied my love for kitties.

After Muff, I had cleaned and put away the litter box, given cat food and toys to another cat fancier, and said inwardly that I wasn’t going to put myself through such emotional turmoil for a long, long time, if ever.

Then, along came Cody.

He looked so much like Muff that I decided on the spot that he was coming home with me.

He was terrified when I placed him the carrier, loaded him into the car, and began the hour’s trip home. He was even more terrified when I placed him and the carrier in the tub, for he had made quite a mess during the long, frightening ride.

I never knew anything about his background. He was an old kitty even then, though neither I nor the vet could quite figure out just how old. Perhaps 10, perhaps more.

It really didn’t matter. Within a very few weeks, he decided he was home, that my lap was the right place to be, and that I was his “staff.” I had also adopted the last of the 28 cats that were homeless from the cat hoarder. Although Cody was first, Manny became the dominant cat.

That, too, didn’t matter.

Cody always greeted me when I came home from work, whether it was 6 p.m. or midnight. And as soon as I was able to relax, he climbed into my lap and let out the most satisfying purr.

He was definitely my cat. He ignored my husband, tolerated Dusty, our 100-pound golden retriever, and knew I would always stick up for him.

I discovered that maybe Cody was actually a miniature dog – he loved everything, from popcorn that fell to the floor to an occasional vegetable, supper leftovers, and of course, tuna.

But after a few years, he began losing weight, despite eating constantly. Trips to the vet showed he was possibly diabetic, perhaps had an auto-immune disease, and definitely had a mouth infection. Repeated trips to the vet, along with pills and shots and anything else that might help, didn’t. He had become all fur and bones.

His passing, under the gentle hands of the vet, was quiet. He truly did seem to go to sleep. I cried, the vet patted my shoulder, and I gently carried him back to the car. It was over all too soon.

Knowing that his time had come and that I was doing the best thing, was little comfort. But then, I had to remind myself that he had had a good home for many years and that the price of adopting older pets meant going through this pain more often. I knew it was the right thing to do.

Now, Manny is an only cat and he seems to be enjoying it. Dusty seems to miss Cody more than Manny, but then, Dusty likes everyone and everything.

A framed photo of Cody sits beside one of Muff on a bookcase next to the wood stove. When the ground thaws in the spring, Cody will join Muff, and other pets buried behind the house under the burial tree.

He was my sweetie.