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In the summer of 2012, both of our cats left us within two weeks of each other, our 7-year-old to HCM, and the 17-year-old to cancer. My husband and I were heartbroken. The month following their loss was really difficult.

We'd had no desire to bring any new kitties into our lives, but my husband watched as I struggled without my babies. I'd had the 17-year-old since I was 16. She'd meant the world to me.

One Saturday, we went to Petsmart to pick up some fish supplies. They were having an adoption fair. My husband quickly dragged me over for "kitten therapy". He then proceeded to fall in love with a little Maine coon kitten that promptly snagged his shirtsleeve and fell asleep in his arms.

While he was mooning over that little boy, a little flame point came to visit me. He held a paw out of his cage, placed it on my hand, and looked up at me with his big blue eyes as if to say, "I understand. It's okay." I had him out of the cage in a heartbeat. When I put him back into the cage, he took a little piece of my heart with him. I was his.

We applied to adopt them both that day. They'd been fostered together, so the group was happy they weren't separated. And they truly were inseparable. They became Rasputin (the Maine coon, the name's a long story) and Artemis (the flame point).

About six months later, Rasputin started to get sick. We took him to the vet, and then a specialist. After a series of tests and misdiagnoses, Rasputin was diagnosed with FIA. We battled it with medication for another six months, but he kept backsliding. Almost a year to the day after he came home, the vet told us his only chance of survival was a blood transfusion, one he was unlikely to survive. We reluctantly said our goodbyes, and Rasputin left for the Rainbow Bridge.

Artemis is still with us. He has a new brother (another rescue), but misses Rasputin. We all do.