Today we had to say goodbye to our 15 year-old furry friend, Fizz the Cat. Here’s a photo of him as I choose to remember the little guy:

Fizz was rescued from a kill shelter in rural Pennsylvania by my son and his girlfriend at the time. Fizz survived college life with a bunch of rowdy kids. After my son graduated, he took Fizz, sans girlfriend, on a year-long VISTA program adventure in eastern Montana. There, my son was an EMT on a rig in the oil town of Sidney, and Fizz spent his days with another, lesser, cat in Section 8 housing.

After his hitch, my son returned to Brooklyn just as my wife and I were making plans to pull up stakes and move to the northwest Bronx. It was a time of turmoil, as one can imagine, as we were ripping our lives up by the roots after 25 years in the borough of churches.

But there was another wrinkle. Our brave 12-year old boxer doggie, Genghis, was failing. He never made the trip with us to the promised land, but he did get to meet the youngster that was Fizz.

Genghis and Fizz did not hit it off that steamy summer of 2010. Genghis looked up from his green Cabela bed with an expression that said, “who’s this little jerk?”

Fizz looked at the 85-pound muscled monster that was Genghis and took a swipe at his face, switchblade claws out and ready to rumble.

The problem did not last long. On July 22, just a few weeks after Fizz arrived in NYC and days before we moved, we had to put Big G down. He was riddled with cancer. His demise was a shitshow. He fought off the narcotic with every last bit of his waning strength.

Finally he succumbed.

And we moved. Fizz loved Bronx life. He ran around the apartment like a nutball from the time we moved until just a few days ago. As The Doors famously sang, “No one here gets out alive….” True enough, for over the last few years, it was Fizz’s turn to incrementally fail. Now a senior cat, he had developed diabetes and I had to watch his weight, check his urine, and shoot him up with 2.5 units of insulin twice a day, making sure he ate his food first.

Our lives were enmeshed in Fizz’s medical metronome.

And things were pretty good until just last Sunday. As I said, Fizz had been in decline. He could no longer jump onto tables and beds like he used to but, hey, I don’t shoot hoops anymore. We age.

But the lives of our pets are so compressed. Sunday, he would not eat. Monday he refused food. Yesterday he wouldn’t even partake of his water-play at the kitchen sink. Not drinking OR eating? Not good. I made an appointment with our vet.

Last night he yowled all night. He would only stop when one of us would say “it’s alright, Fizzy; we’re here. Go to sleep.” Then he’d relax until the next round of yowling in a way that communicated: “Mom? Dad? Help me, I’m scared!”

Today was even worse. He couldn’t move about, had trouble navigating his litter box, hell — he could barely lift his head. This was Genghis Redux. We’d seen this movie before.

This morning I called the vet first thing. I mentioned that this may well be an end-of-life visit. They moved up our appointment.

In his transporter, Fizz — the little nut that once could hop from the dinner table to the high dining room window sill, and leap recklessly from chair to chair — just laid there, still as a stone.

We poured him onto the stainless steel exam table. The vet tech turned on some new age music that he said was to keep Fizzy calm. But Fizz was already beyond calm. The music was probably for me and my wife.

The vet talked about options, sussing us out to determine if we really were bound and determined to play God. My wife and I agreed to leave Fizz a shred of dignity. Modern medicine could have patched up his issues in the short term, but I suspected that in months to come we’d be lurching from crisis to crisis until the inevitable finally occurred. My thinking was that I’d opt for being a week early than a week late.

Fizz rested quietly as the music played and his fate in the book of life was sealed. I think (I hope!) he was good with it. Fifteen years, starting with an escape from a kill shelter, then on to dealing with college kids in their ratty dorm, followed by a cross-country schlep to Montana, then back to Brooklyn, then on to thirteen-plus years in the Bronx.

I marked today’s date, November 29, on my calendar. Now I have two pet Yahrzeits to commemorate. Genghis was on July 22, 2010 and, now, Fizzy’s.

“Take care of yourself today,” the vet said as I gave the cat that was Fizz one last kiss on his grey fur keppy.

And now, I stare about our apartment. I look for Fizz on the dining room table. Nope. I look on the terrace, where he’d find a sunny spot and snooze. Nope. I wait to hear his little bell as he comes over and meows: “Daddy, it’s dinner time. Gimme my grub and shoot me up.” Nope. Well, maybe the little asshole is sleeping on my bed. Nope.

There’s his scratching post. There are his toys. There’s his box of syringes. But no Fizz.

It’s amazing how attached one can get to an eleven-pound rescue cat. I think it’s because both fur babies and owners reciprocally provide 100 percent pure, uncut love, straight from our hearts. No wonder it hurts so bad when we go into sudden withdrawal.