When we adopted Max last year, we knew he had renal disease. He was estimated to be about six years old, and we’d had previous cats with renal disease who lived to ripe old ages, so we weren’t terribly concerned. Then our vet noticed a heart murmur. Again, we’d had a cat with renal disease and a heart murmur.

But a little over a month ago, when I took him to a feline cardiologist, we got bad news: it was full-on heart disease, and his left ventricle was quite enlarged. (In some ways, maybe not a surprise—we knew had had a big heart.) The problem with heart disease and renal disease is that the treatments contradict each other. Unless it was a dire emergency, we couldn’t even have him anaesthetized (which meant no teeth cleaning, despite his stinky breath).

Around the same time, he got more finicky about food, eating less and less until, despite being excited about the prospect of food, he’d just sit in front of the bowls. Last week, I took him to the vet, who said perhaps it was the renal supplement (which is a powder mixed with his food), plus the renal diet, which is particularly bland. He chowed down on a different food at the vet, so we picked some of that up.

We were out of town for five days (helping my mom move into her temporary condo), and came home Monday to realize Max was in bad shape. Because our cat sitter had said he was still turning his nose up at food (although she’d tempted him successfully with some tuna, bless her, because she was worried, too), I’d already made another appointment for him.

Yesterday, they did blood tests, and the news was shattering. His renal levels, which were only slightly elevated in December, were now through the roof. Giving him fluids would put him into heart failure. There was only one option.

I brought him home, cuddled him as best I could with him feeling the way he did. He napped a little with his head resting on my hand. He purred a tiny bit. I told him how handsome he was, how sweet he was. I praised him for always coming to see what was wrong when Clara miaowed, for being his deaf friend’s protector (even when she clearly could hold her own). I thanked him for his purrs, for making biscuits on my belly.

Ken came home, and we took our darling boy back to the vet, and we said goodbye.

Farewell, sweet Maximus Cattius, Maxamillion Purrs, you of the giant heed and the tiny peeps and the magnificent ruff and proud fluffy pennant of a tail. I know the gods have ushered you on your way, and you’re playing and purring and have probably found another companion to protect. You’re in our hearts forever and ever.