We closed a chapter of our lives last week with the passing of our beloved cat, Tubbs. It was a long, slow, painful process, as he had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer in April. Treatment wasn’t an option, other than a series of surgeries to try to remove as many of the tumors as possible, but that came with a whole other slew of complications, like infections and draining wounds. It wasn’t a pretty process, but it brought our family closer together in a way I couldn’t have imagined. It turned out to be one final gift from an amazing animal.

It seems fitting that our final goodbye to Tubby will be here, in these pages, because this is where I first saw him. George Taylor, a name that is familiar to longtime readers, penned a column about a stray Maine coon cat that had appeared in his backyard. Although the beast was a delight when he was alone, he was wreaking havoc with the family’s other feline members, and Mr. Taylor wrote a delightful sales pitch for a perfect pet for a family with no other pets. I’m not sure if it was the description of the intelligent, playful critter, or one look in the big green eyes that peered out from the photo, under a twitchy set of lynx-tipped ears, but I was sold.

The wonderful husband, a lifelong dog lover, was less than delighted to find out that we were getting a cat. It had been a miserable winter. His grandmother had passed away unexpectedly and we were in the midst of having our unborn child’s heart defect diagnosed and developing a treatment plan. Pregnant ladies and cats are not exactly an ideal combination, but I just knew that this cat was exactly what we needed to keep our minds off things that were beyond our control.

The cat, formerly known as Brownie, quickly made himself at home, and could often be found lounging in the bathtub, washing himself in drips from the faucet. He also enjoyed jumping up on the side of the bathtub while unsuspecting victims were showering, pressing up against the shower curtain a la Norman Bates. In no time at all, he was christened Tubbs, for both his favorite hangout and his physique.

Tubby accepted all three children with hardly a tail flick. I was concerned since he had had issues with other pets, but the kids didn’t bother him at all. Even when they were chasing his fluffy tail, pulling on his ears, or even riding him horsy style, he tolerated all of their shenanigans and was always up for a game of chase the string or fetch the mouse. Although I frequently worried about the roughhousing, the WH pointed out that he was an intelligent cat, with many hiding places, and if he truly objected to the treatment, he could easily avoid it. He never did.

If Tubby had one bad habit, it was a short-lived quest for adventure. On no fewer than three occasions, we found him sitting on a neighbor’s roof, as he had sneaked out an open window, or clawed through a screen. Although it induced panic in us, he sat, calmly staring at us as we navigated our way out to him and dragged him back in. In retrospect, I think his antics were more to watch us make fools of ourselves than they were an attempt to escape. He seized every opportunity to sneak up to the attic or down to the basement, and chase dust mice, or dig in the coal bin, possibly after real mice. He usually resisted capture until about 2 a.m., when he would commence howling until someone would open the door and let him out.

Although Tubby was content to remain at home while we were on vacation, with a daily visit or two from a pet sitter, he always voiced his discontent at our abandonment with a few well-placed toe bites upon our return. Grooming was also his least favorite thing, and one of the few times he ever actually drew blood was during his semiannual clipping, or as I called it, wrestling 28 pounds of furry fury.

Tubby was always there for my kids, and as he started to show the signs of his illness, my kids responded in a way I could never have imagined. Although he did his best to keep to his normal rounds, there were days that the steps were just too much for him. The kids were careful to carry him or lift him any time he needed it. They would also pet him and snuggle him like never before. On more than one occasion, I found a new bag of treats that they were sure he would love sneaked into the grocery cart, and then I would find them gently hand feeding him to be sure he was getting enough to eat.

As he got sicker, and quite honestly, a little gross, I expected them to become disgusted with him, and yet, that never happened. It got to a point where I had to bathe him almost daily, which he grudgingly tolerated. The kids were only too happy to help towel him off and calm him down.

One night, last week, as the kids went off to bed, Tubby tried to follow them up the stairs one last time. Halfway up the steps, his body finally started to fail, and he had a seizure. The WH and I spent the rest of the night holding him and saying our goodbyes. Breaking the news to the kids the next day was about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I am grateful that he left us on his own terms, doing what he loved to do: heading up to watch over the kiddos. We are so grateful for the exceptional care that Dr. Kropp and her team at Companion Animal Hospital provided for him, and so grateful for the few extra weeks, days and minutes we spent with him. I’ve had many, many pets over the years, but this was the first one (other than a few ill-fated goldfish) that I shared with my children, and he will always hold a very special place in all our hearts.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.