Max's last day

The verdict from our vet on the state of Max's health was grim but not surprising: we're in hospice mode now, he gently said. I'd be surprised if he lives more than a month. Still, a month is 30 more days of the pleasure of Max's company, and nothing is certain, so maybe we'll have more time with the dear feline. With the sun shining, Max and I walked, both of us a bit more gingerly than we'd like, but walking nonetheless, into the morning sunshine. I brought the old fighter some milk, and we both found a warm, light spot to enjoy. He lay on his side while I stroked his fur. Neither of us spoke much, and uncharacteristically, he barely purred. Once or twice, however, he gave off a sharp but small cry. My wife and I both heard it and worried that perhaps Max was in pain. But we didn't hear it again, so maybe that was just the cat's way of saying thanks for being with me. The thanks, of course, would go both ways. However long we have together, we give thanks for that time, and all the time we've had in the past.