“You have two options,” the doctor said. “And both are realistic.”
I sat in a chair at the emergency hospital desperately trying to push his words away.
Lark Kitty, my sweet little rescue cat, was in kidney failure. The light bringer who I adopted after my husband George died, five years ago, had purred and patted away my tears on long nights.
The too-thin baby who had been rescued from a kill shelter looked as sad as I felt when I first met her at the animal shelter in Pasadena.