When I was 13 years old, in the village where I rested all summer, my grandmother’s cat lay on my bed. I woke up in the morning and saw in my legs a small three-colored piece, more like a mushroom. Usually with the cat offspring, the grandfather had a short conversation, and nothing good for the offspring it did not end. But this time my mom decided to leave the cat and take it to the city. When they started choosing a cat's name, the options were very different - from the exquisite Matilds and Marquises, to the rural Murys and Seebs. But I insisted on my own - the cat will be called the old male name - Kuzma, in the common people - Kuzka. So it went.



I graduated from school, started dating a girl, enrolled in the institute, flew out of it, enrolled in the next, finished it, got to work, broke up with another girl, etc. For 14 years Kuzka was always around, always supported me when I needed it so much – whether it was a craving syndrome or another breakup with the lady of the heart. Legends have been around about her cat’s endurance and willpower – she could sit around the closed door to the toilet for hours, until her eyes started to come out of the orbit, to do her cat’s business.



In the autumn of 2014, she suddenly stopped eating and then drinking. The veterinarian told us that she had not long to live, and the cat is better to sleep, so that she does not suffer from severe pain. Discovered diabetes, like stomach cancer and something else. We returned home and decided to take her to bed the next day. Kuzka no longer stood up, and from every move complained. I took her to my bed, sat next to her and smooked. I felt like she was starting to breathe easier, and the seizures almost stopped. Then we both slept. Maybe it was her fate – to be born and to die next to her best friend.