We got Felix when he was a newborn. We thought he was a girl at first, holding the name Snowball, but as he grew we learned he was a boy. We renamed him Felix, and he’s the best companion I’ve ever had. He was a bit of a jerk at times, scratching our furniture and shoes and fighting with our other pets, but he was the sweetest kitten ever. He’d cuddle up to us, sleep in a mess of our blankets and sheets, take ownership of any and every box in the house he could find and fit himself into, and he’d even let us hold him like a baby. He had the highest meow I’ve ever heard from a male cat, and he was pretty big too. Every time his tail wagged on a surface, it’d give a loud “thump” as it fell. Sometimes I’d hold him and have him crawl against a wall, singing to the Spiderman theme song. “Spidercat, Spidercat, does whatever a Spidercat does…” He had fun doing it. He was beautiful too. Every time I saw him, I couldn’t help but take a picture of pet his soft fur. He wouldn’t let me pet his belly at first, but eventually he’d just lay there as I rubbed it. It’s tragic how we lost him. He had trouble using the bathroom a lot, squatting over our floor as if he’d pee right there. But nothing would come out. We knew it was kidney stones, and we thought it’d be a good idea to let them pass through. After all, we could barely afford rent. Forget about seeing a vet. But he only got worse. Two weeks before he died, he slowly stopped eating (which was automatically a bad sign considering he’d even steal our other cat’s food to satisfy himself) and started just laying around the house. He’d hide under beds and wouldn’t come out for hours. Two days prior to his death, he came out from under a bed covered in blood. We checked him everywhere to make sure he hadn’t gotten hurt. We saw blood dripping from his privates, and we visited the vet as soon as we could. They confirmed our worst fears: he was blocked in his bladder, and he’d need emergency care. We told them we couldn’t afford the operation, and wanted a payment plan. The only one they could provide was emptying his bladder. Even that didn’t work, however. They found that something large was blocking him, but didn’t know what it was. They knew it’d cost too much for us (around $3K for the operation), so the only option they could present without us being kicked out for not paying rent was euthanasia. I couldn’t stop crying that night. I begged them to let me be in the room with him. We had some time to say goodbye, but it wasn’t enough for me. My mother insisted we had to let him go then and there, or else we’d be in that hospital for days knowing me. We told the doctors we were ready, and I held him as they did it. I still remember the tears flowing out my eyes as I whispered how much I loved him one last time. And the cries that came after they checked his pulse to make sure it worked, confirming that he was gone. He died in my arms. My family loved that cat, as much of a pain as he was, and he was a good and loyal kitty. Even now, only about three days after we had to put him down, this small two-bedroom apartment feels far too big without him. My heart aches every time I walk into the living room, and even without expecting him to be there I frown not seeing his black and white fur. I’d retreat back to my room and just lay in bed again. It hurts when I wake up in the morning without his meows, begging for me for food after he ate it all probably a few hours before. Or without him following me to the bathroom and rubbing against me as if to say “Please, feed me, Papa! I want food now! My bowl’s empty!”. We had to pay a lot for this cat. At least a thousand to the hospital, and we owe the crematorium $150 by the end of the week to get his ashes back in an urn. I used to call him “Kitty” instead of “Felix”, and I miss chirping it everyday. I miss my Kitty, and it hurts without him here. I hope there’s an afterlife so he can rest. I wish there was something else I could have done. He was in a lot of pain. If we could have afforded the operation we would have done it. I hope he understands that.