The thing about diaries -- online or otherwise -- is that, while they can be a record of your life, of your thoughts and goings on about life, they can be an inaccurate personal history.

After all, you can edit them, determine what goes in and what does not, you can choose what you will be remembering 10, 15 years down the road. I try to make this an accurate account of what I'm thinking and doing when I post, if only because it's nice now to look back and see how miserable I was working nights at the newspaper, not being able to hang out with my friends, and know that I truly did make the right decision. It may not have been nice to deal with then, but I got through it.

So while I wasn't sure I wanted -- or would be able to -- sit down and write about this now, I feel I should be true to myself and not censor some of what transpired over the weekend. While I felt miserable and near tears on Saturday morning, my mood fluctuated throughout the weekend, and I know, no matter what happens, I'll get over it in due time. That reassurance will be useful in the future, when similar circumstances arise.

I got the call Saturday morning from Mom that the cat, Oreo, wasn't doing well. The tone in her voice alerted me to some bad news, but I thought it might be an update on her cousin Penny, who was injured seriously in a bicycle accident in upstate New York on Thursday. The Penny update came later (she got through surgery but is in a drug-induced semi-coma, with frequent checks for responses), but this was a punch-in-the-gut, out-of-the-blue phone call because Oreo had shown little signs of anything seriously wrong. He's almost 15 years old, so news of this sort was bound to come eventually. While he still looks rather young -- with the exception of his recent weight loss -- he's nearly doubled the lifetime of our first cat, Frisky, who came down with a case of feline AIDS and had to be euthanized just days before I came home for the Christmas break in 1995. We'd had him for eight or nine years.

Oreo we got in 1989, a September addition to the family, and he and Frisky got along fine. After Frisky's death, Oreo seemed to become louder, more assertive. His loud cries Mrrowww! can mean anything from "I want to go out!" to "I want to eat!" to "I want you to use your watch to reflect a spot of light on the kitchen floor so I can run around in circles and chase it!" Frequently on calls home, he can be heard in the background as Mom talks in the kitchen.

I hated Midnight or Hocus or anything that had to do with magic. Most people with black cats give them lame, unimaginative and, it turns out, common names like Blackie or Licorice. When Mom and Jess brought home a black kitten with a white patch of fur below his chin, I suggested Oreo. Then, as I do now, I loved the cookies. It seemed perfect.

On Friday night, when he stopped eating and seemed lethargic, Mom got worried and two vet trips brought the diagnosis of an anorexic and depressed cat. Really -- when cats don't eat, doctors consider them "anorexic"; when they don't groom themselves, they're "depressed." Oreo's condition, tests found, are the result of an enlarged liver. Surgery isn't really an option because of his age, so he's on medication.

It was by far the toughest thing I've ever had to tell Casey, and I broke the news to her shortly after getting off the phone with Mom. I didn't want it to cast a shadow over the wedding we went to on Saturday night, but this was right after Mom called on the way to the second vet -- the diagnosis wasn't known yet. Frankly, we didn't know yet if he'd be coming home; I couldn't take the chance that I would have to break the worst possible news to her without an warning.

We decided that we'd leave Long Island on Sunday morning and head to Little Silver. I wasn't sure if I wanted what could turn out to be one last visit, seeing him in any kind of incapacitated state. Casey answered that one pretty quickly, saying she did want to go.

When we arrived, he was out on his leash on the patio, resting on one of the cushions from the chairs, a bowl of water nearby. The medication had him sleepy, and he spent all his outdoor time either sleeping or drinking, rather than hunting for wildlife in the underbrush, as he usually does. But he was responsive, noticing our presence, lifting his head to our pats, twitching the end of his tail like he often does when lying around the yard or the house.

It was hard to be there for that reason and to want to be around my parents, not talking about him -- or talking about him. I wasn't even sure what to say to Casey, or when to say something. When we left after a few hours and a few loads of laundry, we stopped by to pet him again, kissing him on the head. When I reached down for one last pat while Casey had a hand on his body, he looked up when my hand reached his head. His eyes met mine and it seemed like there was a connection, a recognition. It was nice to see that. Moments earlier, before Casey had come out, I'd told him it's been fun and to hang in there. We won't let him suffer, but he's got to give my parents the indication that he is, so they know.

It's interesting, how people feel about animals. Some don't think much of them, others don't see why people would want a dog or cat in the house. But when we do bring them in, they become part of the family. I remember laughing when I first learned the vet referred to the cats by their names and our last names, but why wouldn't they? For filing purposes, it's the pet's name and the name of the folks paying the bills. Of course they'd do it that way.

Having a cat or dog is different from a bird or hamster or fish. While parakeets rodents have a bit more personality than goldfish or koi, all three, for the most part, are caged. Unless you walk into a room or pass by their habitats, you can avoid them. You stop by to feed them, watch them, talk to them, play with them. But dogs and cats, they live with you. They walk into rooms on their own, they react to names and calls and voices. They go out and come back in.

As kids, my sister and I wanted a pet, and it was a big day when we picked up two rabbits from a school friend of mine. The black one Jess named, Smokey, died when I was in fifth grade in 1986 or 1987 and she was devastated. My gray one, Shady, lived several years longer, overlapping our acquisition of Frisky. But it was Frisky that was the big step. My allergies to dogs made getting a canine companion unlikely, but cat hair didn't seem to bother me as much. Mom, Jess and I all have mild allergies to cats, but we were willing to put up with them for a feline presence around the house. We got Frisky sometime in the mid-80s, sometime right around fifth grade for me, based on my memory and some photographs I can think of. I could probably get a better answer from Mom, but that estimate is good enough.

What struck me last night as I tried to simultaneously fall asleep and not think about Oreo was that we've had him for nearly 15 years now. I'll be 28 in September, which will be the 15th anniversary of his arrival.

We've had him for more than half my life. Holy crap.

It seemed like F-O-R-E-V-E-R until we got a pet, and then two cats at once seemed like a luxury. It's no wonder I feel so sad over his impending departure: he's been around longer than he's not -- if that's the right way to say what I'm trying to say.

So the vets' suggestion was to medicate him and observe him. If the meds make him comfortable and he manages to start eating again, he may have some time left. Medication will be necessary for the rest of his life, however, and that probably won't be long regardless. Mom e-mailed today, though, and said he purred for her last night, which was one of the more painful observations I came away with yesterday. That motor was stalled. But if he's well enough to purr, maybe there is some level of recovery he can reach.

But Mom and Dad have made the decision -- correctly, we all agree -- that if he shows any signs of suffering, of truly struggling, that's going to be it. It's been nearly 60 hours since Mom first called, and I've finally come to grips with it. Before now, I couldn't have written these words, let alone post them. But now, having had at least one more visit and knowing that he's not completely miserable and in pain, I'm at ease a bit.

I don't know how I'll feel heading down there this weekend, having already prepared myself for the last goodbye and perhaps having already said it. If he gets to see Saturday, Jess will get one more visit with him when she comes up from D.C.

We all know our pets won't live forever, but it becomes so easy to get caught up in them being there. We certainly take it for granted, pausing or panicking only when they go missing or don't show up on the doorstep at dinnertime like they usually do. Even at 15, we weren't thinking Oreo would someday suddenly show his age, but I suppose this warning is better for our coping and healing processes than if he unexpectedly decided the check out without consulting us. Maybe this is simply his way of saying, "Hey! Let's get a few more lovey-dovey days in before I get to chase all the moles and mice I want!"

In the end, I'm thankful for 15 great years, which is certainly a lot. How many cats do you hear of hanging around that long? My aunt's lived to be about 18 -- Sedge was older than Jess -- and that was astonishing.

This morning in the shower, I thought that I might need to write this, for the healing aspects it could provide. Catharsis. I wasn't sure I was ready to sit down before work and do it, so I took a shower and figured I might try it at work. Thankfully, work was busy and took my mind off it. Then came Mom's e-mail and the purring update and I was at ease. Now, with the house and computer to myself, with the Cardinals and Pirates on TV, I find I can get through this now. I knew I'd be cheating myself if I came back to Diaryland and posted here without first addressing the cat. Now it's here for posterity, for my memory, and I can move on. A new post -- I still haven't done that music one -- will be up soon, maybe even later tonight, because I don't know how long I want this as the latest entry on the opening page. But my thoughts on Oreo are here, and so many great memories are in my head and in the pictures tucked away in the boxes in the bedroom. It's not time now to go through Oreo's Greatest Hits because that might send me over the edge, but I think this is a good step for now.