It started on Thursday night when Hobey went into The Throw-Up Crouch. Cat owners everywhere know The Throw-Up Crouch: the cat is going about his business, surveying his domain or taking a nap or administering several pulls to a sweater that still has the tags on it, and then all of a sudden he jumps up and stands all hunched over and looks vaguely offended. That’s The Crouch. Then he does that horking thing that makes his back muscles ripple, and then it’s time to get out the paper towels and the carpet cleaner. When Hobey went into The Crouch, I sighed and got up from my desk and went into the kitchen for the clean-up supplies, and by the time I came out, Hobey had puked in four different spots and retreated behind a lamp in the little anteroom next to my bathroom, wearing a guilty look. I patted him. “It’s okay,” I said. “Everyone feels sick sometimes.”

Friday morning, I got out of the shower, wound my hair up in a towel, put paste on my toothbrush, and wandered out into the main room to get the weather report, only to step right in another puddle of vomit. Cat owners everywhere also know that, in a room containing two cats and cat barf of unknown origin, one identifies the barfer by eliminating the sniffer. Sure enough, Little Joe came running up to examine the barf, so I deduced that Hobey had done the barfing. I found the Hobe on the bed, curled up in a loaf and again looking guilty. I patted him. “Do you not feel good, honey? Did you eat something bad?” I felt his nose – cool and damp. “Is Mommy’s baby a little sickie?” He blinked. I shooed Little Joe away from the puddle and put down more paper towels. Then I washed off my foot. Then I got dressed and prodded the sleeping Hobe around his tummy to see if he would yowl or try to bite me. He glared at me, but didn’t yowl or bite. I scratched his ear and told him I wished that he could talk so he could tell me what made him sick. He rumbled (Hobey has never quite gotten the knack of proper purring, so he rumbles instead).

I spent most of Friday trying to get Little Joe to leave Hobey alone so that he could rest. Cats can pick up on the mood of the human, though, and Little Joe picked up “worried” and kept running back and forth between me and Hobey, saying “riuw?” He also kept tackling the Hobe, hoping that the Hobe would fight back, but the Hobe didn’t want to; he just hissed at Little Joe, which concerned me, because usually he’ll start wrestling right away. I shut Little Joe in the bathroom for a while and wondered what to do. Hobey slept.

Dinner time. I cracked open a can of beef and tuna. Ordinarily, both the cats come running when they hear the whooo-thock of a can opening, but Friday night, only Little Joe came running. Hobey sort of wandered in and sat in the doorway. I served dinner. Little Joe ate; Hobey watched. I picked Hobey up and put him in front of the bowl: “It’s your favorite. Surf and turf. Don’t you want any?” He sniffed it and looked up at me and sighed. I sighed too. He wandered out of the kitchen without eating anything and flopped down on the carpet. He had started to look a little nappy, like he hadn’t bathed; I thought about brushing him, but he hates the brush. I stood in the doorway and listened to Little Joe gobbling Hobey’s portion of dinner; the Hobe heaved another sigh. Then he hoisted himself to his feet and went back to his napping spot next to the lamp. He didn’t look good, but he hadn’t started crying, and his nose still felt all right.

Later that evening, Hobey threw up again, mostly foamy-looking stuff that meant he had no food left in his stomach. I brought him a glass of water (he doesn’t like to drink out of his bowl); he just stared at it and closed his eyes. “You’re going to the vet tomorrow,” I said, unwrapping a fresh roll of paper towels. Little Joe sat on my foot. “Riuw?” “Your brother isn’t feeling well,” I told him, “so please don’t pester him.” Later, I saw him grooming Hobey’s ears. I sat watching them – Little Joe licking the Hobe, the Hobe lying still – because ear-licking usually means that a fight is about to start. But Little Joe didn’t start a fight this time. “What? No biting? Are you sick too?” “Riuw?” “I don’t know. He just keeps throwing up and won’t eat.” “Meeee.” “Well, you seem fine.” “Meeee.” “I know. I’m worried too.” “Prrrrt.”

Saturday morning, I called the vet. The receptionist told me that Dr. Grossman had gone on vacation and wouldn’t come back until Wednesday. “I can’t wait that long – is there another vet on duty?” “No, we’re telling everyone to go to the Animal Medical Center on 62nd Street. Do you want the number?” “No thanks. I’ve got it here.” I hung up. I didn’t want to go to the Animal Medical Center. The vets there took wonderful care of Hobey the last time I had to bring him in, after he’d eaten a chunk of wood (don’t ask) and had to have exploratory surgery, but it costs a bomb just to get a consultation, much less to have the cat treated (ninety-five dollars to anesthetize a cat? Please tell me that’s a joke), and I’d have to stuff the Hobe into his carrier and go out in the rain and try to get a cab that didn’t mind feline passengers, and we’d have to wait for ages and ages, but mostly I just didn’t want to believe that he needed to go to the emergency room. I went into the anteroom and found the Hobe lying next to the lamp, sleeping. I tickled his chin. “If you throw up again, we’ll have to go to the emergency room,” I whispered to him. “Please feel better. Please eat something.” He rumbled.

Djb came over for a training session. Right on cue, Hobey threw up again. Again, he threw up four times; again, it looked like saliva. I busted out the paper towels and apologized to Djb. Hobey, exhausted, went to lie down again. Djb and I had our training session, and every now and then I went into the anteroom to check on the Hobe, who slept all afternoon. Little Joe paced around and hopped in and out of our laps. Every time I went to check on Hobey, Little Joe came and sat on my foot and looked hopefully up at me. “Meeee?” “Shhh, he’s sleeping.” “Meeee.” “I know. I’m worried too.” “Prrrrt.”

Djb went home. I felt Hobey’s nose – cool and damp. “Your nose isn’t telling me anything.” “[Rumble.]” “I think I have to bring you to the emergency room.” “Meeee.” “Honey, get down. The Hobe and I are talking.” “Meeee!” “I know. Get down.” The Hobe sighed. I pried open his jaws to see if he’d gotten a rubber band or some string stuck down there, but I couldn’t see anything. He glared at me. “I’m sorry. I felt I should look. Okay, just stay here for a second.” I shut him in the anteroom and went to get his carrier out of the closet. When I came back, I found him in the same spot. Usually, he hears the carrier scraping on the shelf and runs behind the toilet, but Saturday night, he just sat there. “Mow.” “I know. But you’re sick. Let’s go.” “MEEEE!” Little Joe ran in anxious circles around my legs. “Okay, Little Joe. Let’s just settle down, okay? Mommy is taking the Hobe to the vet. You hold the fort.” I plunked Hobey into his carrier. He didn’t splay out his front legs so that he wouldn’t fit into it; he didn’t pedal with his back legs. He just curled up in the carrier without a struggle. I felt like crying. “Aren’t you even going to growl at me?” He just blinked. “Meeee.” “I know. He always puts up a fight.” “Riuw.” “I know. I’ll be home later. Stay off Mommy’s desk.” I threw a paperback into my messenger bag, grabbed a sweatshirt, and headed for the service elevator.

Waiting for the elevator, Hobey howled. “Oh, so we’re not too sick to howl, then? Good. That’s good.” He didn’t howl again. He’d open his mouth, but no sound would come out. I lugged him out into the rain and stationed myself on the corner to try to catch a cab. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. The carrier began to fog up; a blonde in a pashmina poached a cab from me. Finally, I flagged one down and we headed uptown. “Mow.” “I know. We’re almost there.” I poked a finger in and stroked his flank. “Mow.” “You’ll be all better soon.”

At the hospital, I got checked in and we sat down to wait. The woman across from me had brought in a stray she’d found; she hoped she could adopt the little cat if it didn’t have FIV (the cat version of AIDS/HIV). She asked solicitously, “What’s wrong with your cat? He’s a beauty.” I filled her in. “It sounds like string. Did you check for string?” “Yeah, but I didn’t see anything.” “Well, they’ll figure it out. They’re very good here.” “Yes, he’s been here before and they fixed him right up.” We talked about pets for a while. I’d forgotten that particular silver lining on the cloud of the AMC waiting room – the other people waiting all love to chat and offer moral support.

My cell phone rang. I told the Couch Baron that I’d just gotten to the hospital, but I’d call him when I got out. “It could be hours,” I told him. “Last time, I didn’t see a vet till midnight.” I hung up. I wished I could call Little Joe.

We waited. We waited some more. Hobey napped. Two little girls came over to visit him; they tapped the top of the carrier, and their mother snapped at them. “It’s okay,” I said. “If you’re sure,” the mother said. She had two cocker spaniel puppies in a handbag on her lap, sleeping. The older little girl told me about the puppies. “We bought them in Ecuador, on my birthday, but one died, but we brought the others from Ecuador. On my birthday.” I wished her a happy birthday. “Does your kitty bite?” the younger little girl asked. “Sometimes.” Hobey had woken up. He inspected the little girls warily. “Can we pat him?” “Sandy,” the mother said. “Leave the cat alone.” “It’s okay,” I said. I told the little girls to let Hobey sniff their fingers first, and then to stroke him gently on his back. I opened the carrier and they reached their hands in; Hobey sniffed them, and then tolerated some petting. “Is he purring?” “Sort of. He doesn’t really know how to purr.” “How can a cat not know how to purr?” “I had a cat like that,” said the woman with the stray. “He sort of made this sound like I don’t know how to describe it.” “Rumbling.” “Yes, that’s it. Rumbling.” “He’s rumbling a little,” the littler girl said. “He’s growling, dummy,” the older one said. I put my hand on the Hobe’s side. “No, he’s rumbling. He likes you.” I closed the carrier. The girls wandered back over to their mother and the puppies. “I didn’t know you liked kids,” I whispered to the Hobe. He blinked. “Aw. That’s a good cat.”

We waited. Everyone who passed the carrier stopped to admire the Hobe. I in turn admired their pets. Finally, Dr. Morgan came out and led us into an exam room. Dr. Morgan looked younger than I do, but I tried not to think about it. I gave Dr. Morgan a list of the symptoms and as complete a history as I could remember. Hobey trembled in his carrier. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him shedding, which he always does when he gets nervous; puffs of hair kept emitting from him like signals. We took him out, and Dr. Morgan examined him. “He’s not too dehydrated, only a little bit,” she said. She took his temperature and looked into his mouth and ears and eyes and felt his tummy. She couldn’t feel anything. She couldn’t tell us anything. Hobey shivered. Once, he tried to bolt down behind the table, but mostly he just huddled there. “He’s so good,” Dr. Morgan said. “I know. That’s what worries me. Normally he’d be hanging from a light fixture by now.” She smiled. I wanted to say, “You probably hear that all the time,” but I didn’t. She told me that she would send Hobey for an X-ray, and take some blood and urine, and did I want him to stay overnight. I said yes, because he needed a rest from Little Joe, and because they still didn’t know what he had wrong with him.

I went back out to the waiting room to wait for the results. Everyone else had gone home – the Shar-Pei people, the people with the pug, the nice couple with the cat who had cancer. I felt terrible, because when I talked to that woman, I asked her what brought them there, and she told me the whole history of how their cat had a rare liver cancer that only dogs usually get, and how the cat went into remission for over a year, but now the cancer had returned and metastasized, and then she started to cry, and I gave her a Kleenex and apologized and said we didn’t have to talk about it anymore, and she just stood there with tears streaming down her face, honking her nose into the Kleenex, and I felt just awful, so I gave her a hug, and I thought to myself, “What a way to spend a Saturday night, hugging a total stranger while my barfy cat is getting a three-hundred-dollar X-ray and I have nothing left to read,” because I had finished my book already, and then I felt awful about thinking that, and then I started thinking about what would happen if the Hobe had cancer, and what if I’d given him cancer by smoking in the apartment so much, and then I felt like crying my own self. I paced around in the waiting room. I read an old newspaper. I read all the dedication plaques on the wall. I read my address book. Finally, Dr. Morgan came out and apologized for making me wait (a trauma had come in), and I said I understood, because the last time we came to the AMC, a man had come in carrying this bloody mangled pointer and crying, and everyone in the waiting room had frozen and stared at him as he ran by screaming, “SOMEONE HELP MY DOG HELP ME MY DOG MY DOG,” and I shuddered. Dr. Morgan said that the X-ray hadn’t turned up anything, so they’d have to wait for the test results; someone from the medical service would call me tomorrow.

Then I waited some more to pay the first half of my bill estimate. Six hundred thirty one dollars. I winced. I gave them a credit card. I took the empty carrier home. On the way, I stopped at a diner for comfort food. I walked up the hill to my building and took the elevator up and let myself into the apartment, and Little Joe ran around my feet. “Riuw! Riuw!” “Hi, honey.” “Riuw?” “He’s still at the hospital.” I sat down on the couch with my cheeseburger; Little Joe ran around frantically, looking for the Hobe. “Meeee?” “He’s not here, baby. He’s at the hospital, getting better.” “Meeee!” “He’s not here. Come here, let’s sit down on the couch.” “MEEEE!!” Little Joe idolizes the Hobe. Everything the Hobe does, Little Joe wants to do. Everywhere the Hobe goes, Little Joe trots along behind. Now Little Joe couldn’t find the Hobe. I started crying. Little Joe scrambled up onto my lap and butted my chin with his head. “I miss the Hobe.” “Mee eee?” “He’ll come home soon.” “Meeee.” “I know. I know.”

The next morning, Dr. Irwin called to report that they still had to wait on some tests, but Hobey had spent the night on IV fluids, and he would call when he knew something. He asked for permission to do more tests. He called again in the afternoon to say that Hobey’s liver enzymes were elevated, but that they didn’t know what that meant. I authorized more tests. Dr. Irwin explained the tests to me. I asked if I could visit the Hobe on Monday. “If he’s not having the dye study done, you can come between three and seven,” he said. “Call first. But I’ll talk to you before then.”

I talked to Dr. Irwin this morning. Hobey hadn’t stopped throwing up. He had an ultrasound this morning. He doesn’t have any heart or lung abnormalities, which is a relief, but they still don’t know why he’s so sick. When I asked how he seemed emotionally, Dr. Irwin said, “Flat. Dispirited. He’s upset.” I sighed. He said he would call me back later. The apartment felt empty. Little Joe was lonely; he alternated between running around crying and slouching on the bed. Once in a while, he’d jump into my lap, sit down, heave a sigh, and jump back down. He missed his friend. We missed our friend.

I joke about Hobey’s thousand-dollar operation, but I paid every dime happily at the time. I don’t care how much it costs; I want him better. I want him fixed up. I want him to come home and chow down on Pounce treats. I don’t care if I have to max out all my credit cards. I don’t understand how someone could have left that little stray cat out on the street. I don’t understand people who leave cats out on the curb like old furniture. A cat is not a toy. A cat is not a futon. A cat is a friend. A cat is a family member. A cat is not an expense. I can’t put a price on Hobey. Hobey has ruined every sweater I own. Hobey has destroyed the arm of my couch. Hobey has left pawprints on legal documents. Hobey has curled up beside me on winter afternoons when I had a cold and pretended not to mind when I coughed every two seconds. Hobey has consoled me during heartbreak. Hobey is a hellion. Hobey is a rock. Hobey is a pest. Hobey is a pillow.

I hoped the phone would ring soon. I hoped Dr. Irwin would say, “We found the problem, and it’s minor, and we can fix it, and he’ll get better really quickly and come home.” I hoped Dr. Irwin wouldn’t say, “We still aren’t sure what’s causing this.” I hoped Dr. Irwin wouldn’t say, “I have some unfortunate news.” I hoped I could grab the carrier and rush uptown and collect the Hobe, all scrawny with his tummy shaved for the ultrasound, and treat him to a bowl of Science Diet and a liver stick and a new leopard-print mousie. I hoped he knew that I love him even though I yell at him for sleeping on the toaster oven.

Hobey, come home.

The phone rang. Dr. Irwin told me that the ultrasound revealed a mass. He was highly circumspect about what the mass means. At first, I felt relieved; I wanted to know something, anything, for sure. Now I have something that I know. The pancreas is mentioned. The word “cytopathology” is bandied about. Relief changed to a sudden falling feeling of terror. I scrabbled on my desk for my pack of cigarettes as lots of words with “-oma” at the end filed into my ear. “‘-oma’? What ‘-oma’?” They can’t do a needle biopsy, Dr. Irwin said; it’s too dangerous. They’ll have to open him up. They may not get the whole thing. Risks. Anesthesia. Gall-bladder damage. I barely heard him. “When will this happen? Tomorrow?” Tomorrow. “Can I come to visit him?” Yes. Dr. Irwin patiently answered all my questions, but Dr. Irwin didn’t know anything for sure, and Dr. Irwin had neurasthenic dachshunds to see, so I let him go and I grabbed my bag and another paperback and motored out the door.

On the subway, I looked at the other people on the train and envied them. Going home from school, going home from work, going home to their healthy pets. I stared at my book but I couldn’t concentrate.

At the hospital, I only had to wait for a short time before a nurse called me into an exam room for my visit. I waited. The nurse came back with the Hobe. He looked awful – really nappy, his tummy shaven from the ultrasound, a flexi-cast thing on his left hind leg to keep him from chewing at his IV. He crouched on the table and stared up at me balefully. “I’m sorry. I know. But they have to make you better,” I told him. I brushed him a little with my fingernails and scratched him around the edge of the flexi-cast. He rumbled. I picked him up. He felt much lighter already, like a collapsible frame version of himself – a kite cat. “I miss you.” “[Rumble.]” I had sworn to myself that I wouldn’t cry, but here the tears came, rolling down my face. I dried off with the Hobe’s tail. He walked to one end of the examining table and put his front feet on the window ledge to look out at the doctors in the hall. I petted him. “Tomorrow they’re going to cut you open. It’s going to hurt, but it’s going to help.” Hobey looked out the window while I talked to him. “I wish I could stay with you and hold your paw, but I can’t.” I dug around in my bag for a Kleenex. Hobey took this opportunity to try to make a break for the door, but he couldn’t move very fast, so I swooped him back up onto my lap. “I hear you,” I said. “I want you to come home too. I’m glad you at least want to escape. That has to be a good sign.” “[Rumble.]”

The nurse came back to bring Hobey to his cage. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Yeah. I just, you know, hate seeing him so sick.” “They’ll fix him up. Don’t worry.” “Is he giving you any trouble?” “No, no. He’s very quiet. We all like him very much.” “Me too.” “Try not to worry too much.” “Okay.” “We’ll take good care of him. Okay, say goodbye to your mommy.” “Bye, little cat. Don’t bite anyone.” The nurse took him away. I hurried out of the room but I could still hear him crying. “ROW! ROWWWW!” I started to cry again.

Now I’m at home, waiting some more. I keep thinking of Hobey’s little leg bandaged up in a flexi-cast and his naked tummy. I keep thinking of how little he weighed in my arms, how spindly he seemed. Little Joe is asleep at the end of the bed. Usually, Hobey sleeps there. Tomorrow, I will wake up and wait for Dr. Irwin to call. I will pace the floor and try not to shout at Little Joe for pushing all the pens off my desk. I will pray. I will ask God to forget about all the math tests I prayed to pass, in exchange for which I would never ask for anything again, and just please look out for my cat. Please make the tumor self-contained and benign. Please make the surgery a success. Please send my cat home.

Update: If you’ve just read this, the Hobe came home and hasn’t had any problems since. The illness remains a mystery — an expensive mystery, at that — but the Hobe is in fine fettle these days. Thanks again to the many well-wishers who wrote in. We all appreciate it.

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