I suppose I should finish this story

It's been almost two months since Syracuse and I faced down the copper room, but the following takes place between 12 p.m. and 6 a.m., two days later.

It's just after midnight; I'm in the freezing lobby of Friendship Animal Hospital. I'm flipping through People, which seems the wrong thing to be doing, when my cat is wheezing and gasping for air, but I can't just sit here doing nothing for one more minute.

For the past two days I've been waiting for the other shoe to fall; when I wake up, when I come home from work, I go looking for her, and I'm not entirely expecting her to be alive. She's not, really; she's huddled in a corner of the basement, refusing food, refusing water, urinating on herself. She slept in the bathtub Monday night; sometime Tuesday she came down to the basement. I don't know if she went all in one trip or if she went a few feet at a time, which is all she seems capable of. It breaks my heart to think of her dragging herself down two stories over the course of 10 hours.

I try everything -- baby food, KFC, Wheat Thins, Hawaiian bread -- all her favorites. She turns away with reproachful disdain. The cardiologist has told me to hide her medicines in treats, but she rejects them, so three times a day I pry open her jaw and force the pills down. She fights it a little, but she's mostly resigned -- this is just one more indignity she's suffering. I call the vet again, and again, and get the same answer: give her 72 hours, until the Lasix kicks in, and she'll be fine.

Wednesday night starts out much the same, but she suddenly becomes restless, moving every couple of minutes, and her breathing becomes labored. I call the Annapolis emergency vet and get a series of unhelpful answers: they can't say if that's bad unless they see the cat. They can't say whether I should bring her in. They don't know of a closer ER. I give up. I find an ER in Northwest. I pick Cuse up to crate her and nearly fling her into the air; she's lost at least three pounds.

At the ER I move away from the front desk to avoid a German shepherd and the next client accidentally cuts in front of me. Her cat has a sore food. In my mind I go ballistic -- she's wasting time on a SORE FOOT when Syracuse is DYING -- but I say nothing, it's not her fault. The receptionist takes one look at the increasingly pathetic Syracuse and bumps her to the top of the triage list. I am vindicated in this pointless war of mine, but there's no thrill in victory. I don't want to be at the top of the list. I want my cat to be OK. In a corner a man and a woman pace and fret; their dog has been in the OR a long time now. The other patients avoid their eyes, then give them sympathetic glances when they look away. I talk to the owner of the cat with the sore foot. I read the magazine. I feel bad for the couple with the dog.

The vet finally comes out and he looks like Keith from "Scrubs," or maybe I only think that because he's wearing navy scrubs. He's kind and calm, and wants to keep Syracuse overnight. He's given her IV Lasix and an oxygen tent, and he thinks she'll be fine. OK. I ask what fine means, if she'll go back to being a normal cat.

I am expecting him to say yes. I'm expecting that in the morning I'll take her home, the IV will have done the trick, and I'll give her heart meds for the next eight years or so. Since the crisis begins, this is what I've thought will happen. I'm calm and unemotional; this is a hurdle, and an expensive one, but it's worth it to have my cat back. I hand over my credit card without flinching (outwardly).

He says yes, she'll probably go back to being a normal cat, and he says best-case scenario, she'll live another three to six months.

A sledgehammer hits me between the eyes and the tears come hard and fast. My brain cannot absorb the idea; my tongue cannot form the word. MONTHS. Months? "Six months," Tom Cruise says in my brain, "It's nothing. It's a hockey season."

My cat will be dead in less time than it takes to award the Stanley Cup.

Keith takes me back to see her; I'm shocked to see she's in a cage. It makes sense -- where else would they put the animals? I guess I was expecting something like the preemie incubator my sister slept in for the first six weeks of her life. I slip my hand under the oyxgen tent and scratch her head; she doesn't react. I tell her I love her, and I'll be back for her in the morning.

I walk back through the icy lobby; nobody there will meet my eyes. The couple with the dog in surgery give me a sympathetic look and then turn away. I'm the one everybody pities now.

As I shoot across Rock Creek Park I think about the vet's last question to me: If she arrests, should they rescuciate her? I told him yes. But as I wind across Military Road I rethink it; how many times will we relive this night? Even if her lungs clear, her heart will fail before the end of the year. I can't put her through this again, and I can't keep her alive in pain just to prolong the inevitable and put off my grief. I think about calling, withdrawing my consent to rescucitate, but I hesitate; I don't want to make this decision at 3 a.m.

Three hours later, there is no decision to make. The woman on the phone is polite but detached; she's made this call too many times. Syracuse isn't breathing, her heart isn't beating. The vet asks if they should intubate; I picture the intubations I've seen on ER and say no. She says Syracuse didn't suffer; I wonder wildly if they would say that even if she did. The woman is eager to get past the emotional part and on to the logistics: do I want to see the body (no), do I want her cremated (yes), do I want the cremains (no). She says, in what I'm sure she thinks is a reassuring way, that I don't need to come in, they'll send me a bill. I'll be thrilled to receive an invoice for shoveling my pet into a furnace, I'm sure.

Farewell, little Syracuse. You brought me a lot of joy and I hope I gave you a good life.