My Harley is really sick.

The loss of one pet—who has been around for 15 years—is difficult enough.

But my 17-year-old Harley is ailing too. In the past week, while I’ve been dealing with excruciatingly tough decisions and then the loss of Peepers, I’ve taken Harley to the Vet THREE times. Each time he lets me pick his frail body up and snug him in his carrier. This is so atypical. Years ago a Benbrook, TX Vet said, “Whew, that Harley is the cat from hell.” Waaah? My Boy? (Thursday I secretly smiled inside when Dr. Grimm at Great Oaks Animal Hospital said he indeed turned quite cranky once she drew fluid from his lungs.)

Harley in New York City

I’m trying really hard to make the right decision for My Boy. Really trying. Where Peepers was a lover, Harley is a FIGHTER. And I’ve asked my Vet to be very frank with me. If we have done what we can, and we know Harley will suffer… I am going to prepare myself for another difficult decision. He just needs to eat. And poo. And it will make it easier to manage his failing heart.

I hurt for him. But under my compassionate Vet’s guidance, who is not giving up on him, I cannot either.