Henry is dying.

I know that is not the most encouraging phrase to title this with ... but it is very true.

Henry is dying. She has a tumor. It's a large tumor. If she was a person they would make a National Geographic special about it and give her a name -- she would be The Golfball-Face Kitty.

But she is, nevertheless, dying.

I have great confidence in my veterinarian. He gave me the expensive option and I choked up and said, "Serious?" and then he gave me another option and I said I like this pet, I don't want that, and he said, that's the right choice. If it was my kitty, that's what I would do.

It's all tragic. I hate oozing ointment in her eyes at night. I distrust every unevenness in her coat. I wonder where she is when she hides under the bed. I wonder how much is fear of the butt-sticking vet and how much is fear of pain. I miss her.

I miss her, already. Good luck, Henry.

Elliott and I wish you well. We miss you, honey. Please, sleep through it.