Sir Ian McKitten, Esquire.

Disclaimer: This is a post about my cat. But the internet seems to like cats. So.

For my 25th birthday, I asked for the same thing that I had asked for at ages 5 and 11: a kitten, please.

My wish came true, just as it did back then. Daisy Doodle (may she rest in peace), a dainty calico with a keen eye for hunting and a bit of a nasty streak, and Sneakers called Butch, an extremely vocal and comfortably rotund white ball of fuzz. Mr. Butch is an old man now, relishing his senior years in my parents' house in IL.

I loved them both, Butch very much so, but nothing like Sir Ian.

Ian came to us in the middle of a downpour on a (fittingly) gray August day from the Humane Society on 59th and 1st. I had met him the day before and brought Sir back to approve; one look in the eyes of the tiny beast and my stoic Sir was a puddle of butter. He was ours.

He's a dreamy little guy, Sir Ian, silky-soft, good-natured and always snuggly. Fierce in protecting us from his fake mice and bits of dust, he's always sliding around our hardwood floors, his ridiculous 6-toed furry mitts providing little to no traction. Skidding into walls, crashing into furniture, all stumbly and rumply and hilarious and adorable.

Something about him, I just feel so much for the little dude. Maybe because we rescued him from a noisy, frightening, confusing place like a shelter. Maybe because I shared previous cats with my family of five and several dogs. Maybe because I'm (almost) solely responsible for him, I don't know. He's just mine, and Sir feels the same. Ours.

We learned this week after bringing him to the vet for an upset stomach that he has a heart murmur. No vet had heard it before - progressive heart failure at seven months old. Yes, it's possible that previous vets had just missed the murmur. It's possible that it doesn't mean anything at all, and he will have a long, funny, fuzzy life, just as we'd planned. But we don't know. It scared the hell out of me, to hear that. My own heart went totally numb, alone at the vet's office. My little man.

For now we're keeping an eye on him; he seems totally fine, but honestly, mothers, I don't know how you do it. Being a cat-mom has aged me this week.

Please hang in there, Little Sir. We need you, if only to show us how to use the computer.

Hearts for your heart, Sir Ian.