I know I always act like I�m pretty indifferent about Miss Budina, the toilet-peeing cat. I always act like she�s Neal�s pet, and I�m stuck with her because he loves her so much.

I also have announced for years that I don�t particularly care for cats. Give me a dog, any day. Cats are boring and snobby and it�s just mean how the shyest cat will be all over me. I was always convinced it�s because I�m allergic, and cats are jerks who sense my allergy and choose to torture me.

Wait, back up. Before I start spilling my guts all over your computer screen, I�d better tell you how yesterday�s trip to the vet went.

Since the Vet Lady told me to bring Miss Budina into the office in a pillowcase, Neal suggests I use these ones we have that zip shut. I don�t want to have to restrain her that badly if I didn�t need to, so I approach her cautiously with this plaid flannel, non-zipper one I stole from this guy once. Except for a minor adventure as I was getting ready to leave, it went better than I expected. Miss Budina�s cold has taken away a bit of her edge, I think. When I call Neal on the way to the vet and tell him I got her in the car without problems, except for one escape that involved a chase around the yard before I could pounce on her, he starts laughing into my ear really loudly, and a little hysterically. I didn�t think it was THAT funny, until I figured out he thinks I was chasing her around the front yard while she was zipped into a white pillowcase.

That IS pretty funny.

I start feeling bad on the ride there. She�s meowing, which she doesn�t do unless she�s hungry or upset. So I�m talking to her, thinking if I use a soothing voice, she�ll be comforted. That was fine until she crawls over onto the floor on the drivers side. Do you know how hard it is to shift gears when there�s a cat under the clutch?

We get to the office. I pray she won�t make a break for it, wrap her in the pillowcase, and scoop her into my arms. It looks like I�m carrying a fuzzy black infant with killer teeth.

While I�m waiting for the nurse to call us back, another woman in the lobby compliments me on my cat�s �cute little carrier.� I confess that it is actually a pillowcase, which she thinks is brilliant. Miss Budina just lays curled up on my lap, perfectly still and thoroughly freaked out.

During the exam, she starts getting pissed. Strangers are scraping her ears, poking her with needles, and sticking things up her butt. I�d probably be pissed, too. The vet is impressed by her toilet-peeing abilities. It turns out Miss Budina has already been spayed. I knew we weren�t her first owners.

While we are waiting for the blood test results, I start feeling really low. Miss Budina is scrunched into a tight ball on the cold examining table. She is pretty much retreated into her pillowcase, and won�t look up. I can�t help but think about how she already felt sick, and she�s probably wondering what she did to deserve this treatment. To my surprise, all that guilt creeps up and forms a little lump in my throat. I rarely cry, but I�d say ninety per cent of the times I�ve teared up in recent years, I was in a doctor�s office or a hospital. Those aren�t happy places for me, and I think it all got to be a bit much.

So I�m bent over the table, trying not to cry, stroking Miss Budina�s head and telling her how good she�s being and that we�ll be home soon.

And then the vet comes back in. She doesn�t know it, and she didn�t mean to, but the vet does the worst thing she could have done.

I can take bad news incredibly well if you just give it to me straight. But if you give me any time to get myself worked up, I usually crumble. I can�t help it. My imagination is my emotional state�s worst enemy.

The doctor begins telling me about the diseases she checked for in Miss Budina�s blood. The vet describes the illnesses for about 5 minutes. But she doesn�t tell me our cat is negative, so I know something is really, really wrong. I use that five minutes to work myself into a terrified frenzy.

Miss Budina is positive for feline AIDS.

The doctor tells me a lot of things I�ve since forgotten, and asks me to make some decisions I don�t have the right to make by myself. I have myself worked into such a mess, all I�m doing is concentrating on not dissolving right there in the office. I tell her I�ll get back to her, and somehow I keep all that sadness locked up while I pay my bill and pack my dying kitty into my car.

I lose it a little on the drive home. I carry her to the house, and when Miss Budina sees her living room, she leaps out of my arms and books it away from the damn pillowcase, scratching my elbow hard enough to draw blood on the way down. I lose it a little more when I call Neal and tell him. He apologizes fifty times, because if he�d had any idea we were going to get slammed with this kind of news, I wouldn�t have had to make that trip by myself. I�m not sure, but I think I make him cry at work.

At this point, Miss Budina is still pretty bitter about the me-taking-her-to-a-place-where-strangers-put-stuff-up-her-butt thing, so she won�t let me hold her or pet her. Instead, I call everyone I know and cry. Neal calls me and cries into his phone while he drives home.

Confession time. I am disproportionately upset. Apparently, I really love that cat. Damn it.

When Neal finally arrives, he hugs me, sits down, pulls Miss Budina onto his lap, moans, �I don�t want to have to put my kitty to sleep,� and sobs. I watch them from the couch, and cry some more. I still can�t believe how much this has effected me.

Neither of us feel like doing anything. We get some dinner, some wine and a video. While we�re out, we stop in the grocery and buy $84,000 worth of cat treats. Neal and I spoil the cat and try not to think about it too much. I start to feel a bit better, because the nurse guessed we have a few months before we�ll have to make any tough decisions. I even indulge in a little unhealthy denial, since Miss Budina doesn�t look sick. She looked sick when we started feeding her. She was probably already sick then. And now it�s been a year, and except for her cold, she�s as healthy as she�s ever been. Between the denial and a funny movie (The Wonder Boys), I�m feeling relatively chipper when I crawl into bed. We watch Miss Budina curl up in the bed I bought her this past weekend, turn out the light, and snuggle in for sleep.

I�m doing okay until I reach up to pull Neal closer, and feel that his cheeks are wet. This sets me off, so we share one last good sob before we drift off to sleep.

I�ve got a headache and I�m tired. I'm half-blind, because even though I cleaned them once, my contacts don't react to tears and eye goop well. But I�m mostly sad for Neal, sad for me, and sad for our funny little kitty.