Our household has been diminished by one.
He doesn’t look sick, does he? But this is the last picture ever taken of Milo. He was lethargic and not eating much, so we took him into the vet just after this picture was taken. They confirmed he was having some serious issues, and kept him over the weekend for diagnostics. We were racking up a huge bill which was making us nervous. They had him on an IV and in a heated chamber because his temperature was dropping. This morning they called to tell us he’d expired. He was just two years old. A few weeks shy of two, I’d guess.
It’s hard to believe he’s gone. Seems like just yesterday he was a palm-sized kitten.
Seems like just yesterday we adopted him under strange and crazy circumstances.
He was a decent mouser. He had a penchant for nipping at us when he felt playful, but he could also be aggressively affectionate. He was the only other male under our roof. Milo is survived by Folds and Crybaby and Archer and various ferals, including his girlfriend Bronski. He will be missed.
But though it sounds cold to say it, I never let Milo too close to my heart, for reasons previously mentioned.
And so our run of bad feline luck continues. We’ve lost five cats over the nine years we’ve lived in New Orleans. I’m beginning to feel like there’s a curse.