Several weeks ago, Sydney, the 12-year-old gray tabby that A. adopted a couple years before we met, stopped taking her IBS medication in food. Over the last few years I was able to successfully mask it in her food using a variety of techniques. So, I began getting the medication compounded into liquid form and, up until recently, had few problems giving it to her via syringe. (Sydney is part feral and has never enjoyed being picked up or handled in anyway.) Lately, giving her medication has become increasingly difficult, and as such, our bond, although not broken, has been damaged. I cannot adequately express how much this hurts me. Sydney is the closest friend I have. Making a long, painful story short, I’ll be forced to put her down if giving her medication becomes impossible. For me, Sydney is the last living extension of A. Sydney turned me into a “cat person.” So, for these reasons and others, just the thought of euthanizing her brings me to tears. This will be another sad, heartbreaking ending I will have to endure. And it will probably be my last. I’m so tired of crying. So tired of fighting against this thing that is larger than me— this life. So tired of waking up every day, in the same bed, alone and afraid to face another day. Never— even in the darkest pits of my imagination— did I think this would be my life: a 44-year-old man, broken and alone. I spent Xmas, alone. I drink nearly every day, and with increasing quantity. Sleeping, despite prescription medication, is a constant challenge. I wish someone would materialize out of thin air. Someone to give me hope. Someone to live for. Someone to whom I can give myself. I just want A. to come back.