“He won’t make it to the end of the week. I’m sorry,” the vet said. 

I looked down at my best friend for the last five years. Lot was meowing at the door. He had heard another cat out in the lobby and he wanted to go play with them, I guess. I could feel my heart shrink already; pieces detaching and separating so they can go float somewhere. I needed a drink or two so I could properly deal with this. I would find one or two, but would drink five. 

“Then I guess today’s the day,” I said, looking at my feet. “Today’s the day to do this.”

The vet sighed. “I guess so.” 

Lot turned his head and meowed at me. I saw his jaw and mouth fading away, the cancer there like it was stuck in a trap, trying to claw out and through. Like a monster that had nightmares to serve. Like it was ready to sever it all. 

I was about to lose it, but I straightened myself out. I picked him up gently and placed him back in his carrier. I thought about where I would be a year from now, five years from now, and no matter where, I would know how light he weighed, how quick this would all be. How death is always around. How every friend you ever make is going to leave. How being alone is a state, more than just a state of being, but just your permanent overall state.  

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours, then,” I said. “Thanks.” 

Lot had been the first cat I’ve owned. My brother adopted him, but over the years, he grew a bit more attached to me. A polydactyl cat, he was named as such for the extra toes - hence, “lots of toes”. We didn’t name him that specifically (the lady we adopted him from was known for her cheeky, pun-esque names), but we grew to love it. He was a fat orange goofball that loved spaghetti and didn’t mind how much I drank. We used to sit together and watch movies, sit outside on the front porch and stare at the insane world in front of us. He’d wake up every morning by my head, making sure I never rested alone. For five years, he was a cancerless cat, happily running around and seemingly aloof, overjoyed that we had given him a home. 

But there’s a dark joke out there, one of my favorites that I tell everyone: “How do you make God laugh? You make a plan.” 

And that’s what happened. I made a plan and God needed a gut laugh. 

I let him out of the carrier and he ran right away towards the kitchen. He knew what that meant - any trip to the vet ended in crunchies. I got the treat bag out of the cabinet and he howled in delight. But I stood there for a second, fumbling with the bag. He circled around my feet and rubbed against my leg. Standing there, unable to get a small damn bag opened, was when I lost it for the first time. I felt useless. I felt that I should have taken better care of him and that I wasn’t a good cat dad. I had just moved to Philadelphia earlier in the week, only home again briefly for this appointment. I wanted more time with him, even talked about bringing him to the city with me. But it was going to end here. I said the usual, about wanting more time. I looked down at him and apologized for everything, but he meowed - he just wanted the treats. I finally got the bag opened and gave him a huge handful. As he munched away with his cancer jaw, I just stood there, crying. I said something about time, but I wasn’t sure what - my voice wasn’t working right. But, as expected, clocks continue to run; they don’t give a shit about us. 

As he ate, as I cried, I found the gin. I had five ice cubes. I had an hour to kill. I liked the challenge. I found one. 

I put gin and ice in a dirty glass. Lot watched me. But more than just him watched. A ghoul inside of his mouth watched, smirked.  

“There’s an hour left,” I said. “Don’t judge me.” 

He stared.  

Time passed. Drink passed. It crawled. It breathed like a wild uncaged. Cancer was going to get us. All of us, whether you’re human or animal. 

It just happened to find him first. Like it found Mom. Like it found Dad. Like it found others. He was next. Bad luck. 

I got pretty gin heavy quick so all I did was sit and watch him. He was laying in the sun listening to the birds. I was in the next room but I was still there. I didn't need to be around the light. I needed to be around glass and weight. 

The cancer was moving, but it did not move towards me. Not yet, at least. It would. Why wouldn’t it? It’s here to kill all of us. Especially me.  

Drink gives me strong muscles, coincidentally. Not that I needed Herculean strength to pick up a dying cat. He weighed as much as a bag of chips. He chirped as I lifted him, but we still stood in front of the sun at the window. He shifted. 

“Trust me,” I said, choking, “I don’t like this anymore than you do. But can I tell you something?” 

He side-eyed me. A large round circle of red skin on his lip, bloated. The thing that healthcare companies love, because they charge the shit out of you for it.  

“I’d want you to do this to me, you know that?” 

I would later tell my girlfriend the same thing. DNR. Pull the plug. If I can’t live to love, then why am I here? 

Drove back to the vet straight as an arrow. But I sure did sway walking up the ramp to take him back inside the vet’s office.  

I tried to tell him goodbye and that I loved him, but he kept squirming away. He jumped out of my hands and started smelling the floor. I could see the cancer from every angle, I couldn’t get away from it. I saw it, glaring, pulsating. I thought of him without a jaw and I went to pick him up again. I hugged him and cried out loud for the first time in a while. I think now he understood and snuggled in a little bit, gave a little chirp. I left him looking out the window. Maybe he was looking for someone to save him. Maybe he was looking for some treats or a toy, maybe even Dillinger, who was our other cat. Maybe he was trying to tell me the same thing I told him earlier, that he was only here for a little while, and not to get too comfortable. Because we would have to move. Because we would have to get out of here and find somewhere else. 

I didn’t watch and I didn’t stay behind. I know that makes me a coward. Say what you will. But I paid the bill in full. And some people wouldn’t. Remember that. 

I came back home and my brother was there. He just got there; he couldn’t get out of work in time.  

“Is it over?” He asked. 

I nodded. 

“What do I owe you?” 

It always revolved around money with him, but I didn’t let it bother me this time. “Nothing. Buy me a burger next time we go out.” 

“Fine.” 

I stood there in the doorway, saying. I had to drive back to Philly. No one knew I had been drinking. No one except the ice cube tray. 

“Are you leaving to go back now?” He asked. 

I picked at my fingers. “I can’t, I shouldn’t,” was all I said. Didn’t have the guts to ask me about death. Or cancer. Or about Mom and Dad. Couldn’t say anything other than what he had to say. I think that’s why I loved him. 

“Well...are you spending the night here?” 

“No,” I said. “I’m only here for a while.” 

“Then let’s talk,” he said. 

I nodded. I wasn’t expecting that.  

“Just let me go pick up something else first,” I said. “I’m still thirsty.” 

Kevin Richard White's short fiction has previously appeared in Hobart, Rejection Letters, X-R-A-Y, Hypertext, Death of Print, Back Patio Press among many others. He lives in Philadelphia.