We had to put one of our cats to sleep a few weeks ago. It did not come as a surprise. Milo was 12, and had been losing weight for a few months. The final diagnosis was renal (kidney) failure. I worried a good deal in the weeks leading up to his demise. I feared that Katherine (my four year old) would be traumatized by her first experience with death. I was concerned that Robert (my 21 month old) would wander the house, calling "Lo? Lo?" and wondering where the furry orange cat had gone. I worried, too, about how our other cat would fare with the loss of his longtime companion. Zippy is 11 and has had Milo as an older "brother" and friend since he was just a few months old. How would his little kitty brain process this sudden absence of warmth and fur and purring?

So I fretted, and meanwhile I dragged Milo back and forth to the vet repeatedly, tried to coddle his failing appetite with a variety of delectable treats (tuna, salmon, premium cat food, and cat treats) and administered different medications, all in an effort to make his last few weeks relatively pleasant ones. Finally, and after a few false alarms, we knew the time had come. Milo had not eaten anything, not even his beloved Special Kitty Tarter Control Treats for two days. He was wasting away and was, literally, nothing more than skin and bones.

I had a little talk with Katherine, "Honey, you know we've talked about this a bit before, but Milo is really sick and not going to live much longer." "I know," she replied blithely. "When does he get to die? Can we get a bird when he dies?" This matter-of-fact response was similar to what she had to say in our previous little talks, so I was unsurprised by her reaction (or lack thereof) at this point. But poor Robert, surely he would notice the disappearance of his beloved "Lo" whose presence he would comment upon every single (yes, every single) last time the cat wandered by. I pictured my chubby toddler looking high and low for Milo, calling out his name in an increasingly plaintive tone. Behind him would be Zippy, mournfully crying and refusing to eat due to the depth of his kitty-cat grief. Even Katherine, I thought, might realize the permanence of the situation once Milo was really, truly gone.

So we said our goodbyes to Milo. I carefully put him in the kitty carrier and my husband, Clay, took an extended lunch break to make the final visit to the vet's office. I cried on and off as I prepared grilled cheese sandwiches and apple slices for the kids and snuffled a bit into my own sandwich. When Clay came home with the empty carrier and the blue biodegradable body bag containing Milo, he was tight lipped and grim-faced. He stayed only briefly, then went back to work. Later, he told me that the procedure shook him up more than he had anticipated, though it went smoothly.

Katherine piped up after Clay went back to work, "Where is Milo? Can I see Milo? What does he look like now?" I confess, I was a bit curious too, but decided it was best not to view the remains. I put the bag in our large garage freezer and told Katherine that Milo's body was there, but his spirit was in Kitty Heaven. She seemed satisfied with that.

The next evening, we held a small grave side service in our back yard for Milo. Katherine was excited to plant some flowers on top of the grave. Robert enjoyed picking up the clumps of dirt excavated by Clay and throwing them. I got choked up again as I reminisced a bit about some of Milo's finer moments and more admirable traits & cried when Clay read the Rainbow Bridge essay. Then we filled the grave, planted and watered the flowers.

Now it's about five weeks later. Robert has not, even once, brought up Milo's name. I miss hearing him pipe, "Lo!," but I know he won't remember anything at all about this early companion.

Katherine will occasionally reflect. "Poor little Milo. He got old and had to die. Poor little thing." But now she is starting to ask about Zippy. "When Zippy dies can we get a bird? How about a hamster? Yes, I want a hamster. I'll name her Sarah." Poor Zippy, I think, still hale and healthy and the child is mentally dug his grave & found his replacement!

Even Zippy has emerged from this trauma relatively intact. He wants a bit more petting than in the past, but then again he has always been the consummate lap cat and maybe I just have a bit more time to devote to him now that I'm not catering to the sick kitty.

So I fretted and worried for nothing. I'm not sure if it is a developmental stage on their part, or if I just have very resilient children, but the loss of a pet has not been the huge upset to our family that I thought it would be. Milo was here, he was a good, smart, brave cat and he shared his life with us for 12 years. I did my best by him, which was not always good enough, especially after the kids were born, and now he is gone.

Soon the rose campion that we planted on his grave will bloom. I think the flowers will be pink. I hope he is pleased with them from his perch on high, by the Rainbow Bridge.

Mary Becelia, of Stafford County, is a mother of two and part-time employee at the University of Mary Washington.