“What was inside?”

There’s a hacking sound behind us. Chris vomits onto the seat. I look back at the chunky mess. It’s bright red. “Thomas, it’s mostly blood,” I say. The stricken look on his face tells me everything. Chris coughs again then vomits more blood. “Give me your phone.” I Google “Veterinarians.” “There’s a vet ICU fifteen minutes away.” I call and tell a receptionist our situation while Thomas grips the wheel. “They said to bring her in, they’ll be waiting.” I set the phone on the dash and Google Maps says: “Follow Route 26 South for twelve miles . . .”

I climb into the back seat, wipe the mess up with leftover Starbucks napkins, then hold Chris on my lap. The old cat’s eyes are squished shut. Moose rests his muzzle on Thomas’s shoulder. Good boy.

When we arrive at the vet’s, Thomas carries Chris like a baby through the clinic’s doors. She’s whisked away by a vet tech while Thomas is given forms to fill out, one of which is a list of costs for the tests Chris might need. When he’s done, we’re ushered into a tiny exam room. Thomas paces the white box, peers outside. Moose’s head hangs out the open window, his expression morose. Animals can sense things we choose to ignore. It starts to rain again and Moose retreats into the car.

Thomas agonizes, “She’s old. I know she’s old. But we’ve been together most of my life. She was there through Dad’s death. I don’t have . . . My mom didn’t cope well after she was widowed. Chris is my family. I didn’t . . . I should’ve . . .”

His shoulders hitch. There’s nothing right to say so I stand behind him, wrapping my arms around his torso. His hands find mine and hold tight. There’s a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” I say while Thomas pulls himself together.

“Hi, I’m Dr. VanVoorhies.”

The vet wears a white coat over green scrubs and her sandy hair is cut short; brown eyes in a gently lined face devoid of makeup focus on Thomas. “So. Christopher Robin.” She motions us to sit, pulls up a stool, glances at her clipboard. “You said she’s twenty.”

“Chris’s almost twenty-one,” Thomas says. “In a month.”

“That’s a long life for a cat. And I can tell she’s been loved.”

Thomas’s jaw muscles clench. “She’s . . . yes.”

“Right now we have her on an IV—mostly to hydrate but also to deliver pain meds.”

“She drank a lot of water a few hours ago,” I say.

Dr. VanVoorhies nods. “That makes sense. We took some blood to check her creatinine levels and a few other things. I’m sorry to say that Chris has chronic renal failure.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I ask.

“That Chris’s kidneys have failed. Probably have been failing her for a while.”

Thomas clears his throat. “Any options?”

“I’m afraid not,” the vet says. “We can put her on a low-protein diet, atenolol for hypertension, but Thomas? There is no way to fix renal failure, just support life.”