THERE IS A PLAGUE ON AWL OUR PETS. My pup has canine Alzheimer's, and paces the house all night licking her lips; we see the vet tomorrow. (Our pet rat is also fading, but I can't seem to get anyone to care about that.)

I have gone through this enough–and I have harrowing stories best left alone–that I want to say to all of you, all of us, that what you do is cherish the magic while you have it; and you never relinquish it once they're gone.

I have two older cats at home, and Writing is On The Wall, but not a day passes when I don't sit here and think about the wonder I'll feel when I will see them next; that I thought, this time last year, that both would not make it through another summer; but that now, I know there will be, perhaps, yet another Spring for them; and that, when they are gone, my heart will not tolerate being without more pets.

Because they are devoted, without asking the kind of silly questions we people persons insist on mucking up life with. Because they trust and are trustworthy without "issues" to work out. Because they deliver the goods free of bullshit. That's why we love them so, and they will always be necessary.

Jesus. What a sap.

"What happens when you get a pet — you have 'em for a while, they get old … They 'go away.' Just like your grandma — same shit, different species. What happens to grandma? You have her for a while, she gets old … She 'goes away.' It's inevitable when you buy the pet. You're supposed to know it in the pet shop: It's going to end badly. You're purchasing a small tragedy. 'Aw, look at him, isn't he cute? Oh shit, he's gonna die!' Unless you're in your 80s and buying a tortoise." — George Carlin

A short living pet story; Maebel, the hound, was so tired of having to go from room to room to see her two humans that she dragged her bed into the hallway for prime point of view. When I moved it to get by, she stood her ground and placed it there again. Her main expression is usually frustration with our thick-headedness.

Ugh. The older of my two mutts turns 10 in a few months. I cannot stand the idea of either of them chasing butterflies in the Big Meadow In The Sky, and I know I will completely lose it when they do.

As a new father, it's even harder to devote quality time to the dogs in our limited time left together. That just kills me.

Sap makes maple syrup. We need you, Karen.

I have two 18 year old cats. I can feel the black tide approaching. (I was going to say 'tsunami'. But well. Inappropriate.)

cannot be sadder than this http://www.fox6now.com/news/witi-20110316-dog-beater-trial,0,2736363.story

Both essays perfectly expressed what it's like to have pets, especially the first pets you have as an adult, age and die.

One piece of unsolicited advice for those with sick animals: if anyone who does not own a pet asks what you are spending on vet bills, don't tell them. No matter what amount you say, their only response will be "Wow, that's a lot for a dog/cat," and then you will be forced to hurt them physically. The corollary, of course, is don't let anyone make you feel guilty for not being able to spend large sums on treatment.

Here is a live pet-within-a-dying pet story that I waited to tell till the thread played out a while, because it's silly and suffused with wiggy mysticism I normally don't believe in, so why burden you good people? Because this is, like, REAL. So, only die-hards and true believers and people like me who sit at their desk and are really bored by the guy across the alley picking his nose need read on.

We had two cats. Sisters. Johnny and Becky. They died within two weeks of each other, in April, 1998.

We also had [have] a parrot–Sunny, a green Senegal who picks his feathers and bites like a car door slamming on your hand. Sunny loved Becky. He used to snuggle with her in bed. He spoke to her. For instance, he routinely said, with great enthusiasm, "Fuck you, Becky!" It sounded like I Love You.

After Johnny and Becky died, we were disconsolate. Lost. We lasted a month before we went to the shelter. Ended up getting two new cats, Sandy and Chloe, who just so happened looked exactly like Johnny and Becky. Well not quite. Sandy looked like Johnny. Chloe looked like Becky. A lot like Becky.

When we brought them home, of course they scattered to the corners of the house to hide and quiver for a few hours. . .but then, after a while, Chloe emerged from the basement.

Instantly, Sunny cried, without us saying a word, "Fuck you, Becky!"

But there is more. When Becky went out into our yard, she always–ALWAYS–went out the kitchen door the same way: by going halfway past the kitchen table, then suddenly stopping, backing up, then going all the way around the table, to the door.

Chloe does precisely the same thing.

And then there were Becky's litterbox habits. I won't go into microscopic detail here, but let's just put it this way: there are certain ways of–arranging things–that are odd and unique and once-in-a-lifetime and David Foster Wallace writes short stories about them.

Well. Chloe? Went to the same Art School as Becky.

Plus, if that's not enough? Becky loved powdered sugar donuts (do you say 'doughnut'? You're a dilettante.). She waited in the front window each Saturday, waiting for me to bring them home. What kind of cat eats powedered sugar donuts?

Chloe waits there, too.

The dog I got when I was a kid (a tiny, frantically leaping surprise after coming home from summer camp) just died this year. He'd damaged his ACL and was going in for routine surgery when he had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia and his heart stopped. He'd been getting older but we thought we had a few more good years and I've never been more startled or disconcerted than when walking into the pet hospital and seeing his chest move up and down to the rhythm of the machines, his tongue strapped down and his eyes glassed over. I miss him.