is gently kneading my shoulder, resting his head on my chin, rumbling a sustaining purr. "It isn't true, you know," he tells me, gently bumping me with his head. "I'm not that sick." But he is. Miles is dying. Of liver failure. Of being too chubby, catching a cold, and refusing to eat. The metabolizing fats overwhelmed his liver, and even force feeding him couldn't bring it back.

So Miles has come home to die. Our beautiful boy who rode out of a cage and into our lives clinging to our shoulders, ears swiveling in curiosity. The cat who had to know, and would climb to find out; up the bookshelves, behind the plants, onto the windowsills.

At the clinic he's willingly stepped out of his cage and onto the vet's shoulder, enduring any indignity with spitting good cheer. "No harm done," he'd purr, "all for the best, you know." He gently pats away our concerns while the vet shakes his head no. No miracles. No second chance. No reprieve.

Lighter today than yesterday, he rides companionably in my arms, watching the world through his wide green eyes. He murmurs a soothing purr as he gently wraps his paws around our hearts. Leaving little cat scratches to mark his passing.