It's been a year and two weeks since the last time our little black cat had a health crisis. He had a urinary blockage last January with two rounds of hospitalization. Then we had a good year in which we fell in love with him even more.

On Friday night, he started acting frantic around the litter box. We took him to the normal vet, where they said his bladder was small so they gave him steroids and antibiotics. We took him home.

On Saturday morning, he was crying in pain. He'd vomited all over the basement in the night. We took him to the emergency vet, where he got a catheter and he stayed overnight. The bill equaled almost exactly our mortgage payment.

We brought him home this morning, and he slept on my stomach for two blissful hours during which I tried to memorize the soft feel of his fur on my skin.

About three hours ago, he started straining on the litter box again.

We called the vet. They said he might be reblocking. After we underwent several rounds of unfruitful hospitalization with Sir Charles Buttonsworth, the Manx we adopted at the same time as Kizzy, we promised ourselves we wouldn't keep throwing ourselves at chronic problems if we weren't willing to take the radical next step. In the case of urinary blockage, the radical next step is a surgery that essentially removes the cat's penis and turns him into a girl cat with a wider urethra. I won't judge anyone that would undertake that step, but we can't afford it, not if we want to be fiscally responsible and stay on track to free ourselves from the mountain of debt we built getting out of This Old House and into Chateau Travolta. One four-figure vet bill per year. We promised ourselves.

We've had the four-figure vet bill. Kizzy is currently straining on the box.

Beloved and the little angel think he just needs to drink more water, but I have watched this cat every day since the last blockage. I know the ins and outs of his litter box behavior.

This isn't going to go away.

I sit in the office, typing this post, and my human family sits in the living room, halfheartedly watching the Oscars, and my cat sits in the basement, frantic.

I told my family I won't wait for him to scream in pain. I won't let him spend another awful night vomiting and straining in the basement. I can't stand it.

I thought, this time ... this cat was so young and super-human. This cat walks on a leash and can leap to the top of the refrigerator.

I can't believe this is happening again.

I swear, after the old age death, we've had the acute kidney failure then the diabetes crisis then the megacolon and now the urinary obstruction. The vets must think we have pet Manchausen by proxy. We feed them all expensive prescription food. We scoop their poop every day, two litter boxes per cat. We filter their water and we do everything.

And they. keep. dying.

I don't know what to say.

But I have to say something, because I have to do something, because there is another half hour before I have to go feel Kizzy's bladder and figure out what to do.

Oh my God, I love this little black cat so much.