Loki’s six months on earth ended today when vets at the Virginia-Maryland Regional School of Veterinary Medicine put him to sleep.

Our neurologically-challenged kitten started going downhill Tuesday, suffering seizures even while under medication.

For the first time since he came into our lives last November, he appeared to be in pain. We made the decision Tuesday but it wasn’t easy, even knowing that in his condition this was the best thing for him. Amy and I both broke down several times. At the vet hospital, I had to excuse myself and retreat to the men’s room where I sat in a stall and cried uncontrollably, the sobs sweeping over me in uncontrollable waves.

Afterwards, we said our goodbyes to our beloved kitten and left before they put him under.

Loki touched everyone he met. Even in his impaired condition he was a loving cat. Towards the end, he could neither walk nor see but still accepted love openly and affectionately.

The doctors at Virginia Tech will study his brain to see if they can determine what robbed him of any chance at a normal life. Maybe they can find something that will prevent future kittens from suffering the same fate.

If studying Loki will help others it will be a fitting legacy to a kitten we loved and will miss.

The couple sitting in Oddfellas Cantina Sunday pored over real estate brochures and maps, looking they said for their dream country home.

“We’ve had it with urban life,” said the 30ish redhead, who introduced herself as Cindy. “We want the quiet and charm of the country.”

Her husband, Charles, nodded agreement.

“We can afford the change in lifestyle and it’s time to move,” he said.

I have decided – after a week of fighting this damned, energy-sapping, freedom-robbing flu bug – to live.

This decision does not come easy. My energy level remains somewhere just above nil, depleted by too much dehydration, sapped by too many purges of my system and stretched beyond the limited physical prowess of old age. I’ve devoured every magazine in the house while sitting on the toilet, used up more toilet paper than those damn bears in the Charmin ads and drank enough liquids to float an oil tanker.

It wasn’t the catfish and it wasn’t food poisoning. Nah, it turned out to be old-fashioned, gut-wrenching, colon-flushing, stomach-contents hurling, fever-raging flu.

And, as I always try to do with my bride of 26 years, I shared. Good thing this house has three bathrooms.

Sunday started out looking better but queasiness sat back in Sunday night and Monday dawned feverish and bowel-contentious. Then things seemed to get better by late afternoon and I tried to eat something.

It started with an over spiced blackened catfish at lunch Friday. I love hot food but this one kept me coughing throughout the meal.

My stomach growled when I saw down for dinner at home Friday night. No big deal. I eat spicy food all the time.

By 8 p.m., however, the growling turned into full-fledged mutiny and the rumbling from my gut sounded like Sherman’s march through Georgia.. I headed for the bathroom with a fresh magazine to let nature take its course.