When a cat gets as old as she was — she was 20, and nine months away from being able to legally drink alcohol — it turns into a race as to which worn-out part will end up killing her. For a long time, it looked like kidney disease was going to win the race, but in the last few days, her colon, in a stunning come from behind upset, passed her failing kidneys.

This morning, she spent more than 10 minutes in the litterbox, straining, her little back muscles rippling, trying to get the tissue paper of her intenstines to work, but only succeeded in sprinkling drops of blood on the litter. She moved throughout the house, trying over and over. In my study, she suddenly hissed loudly in pain and frustration. This is a cat who, in 20 years, has bitten three times total and probably hissed fewer than a dozen times.

I’ve always said that when her age and infirmity became a burden to her — remarkably, she adapted to the blindness of these past six months quite well — I wouldn’t be selfish, and would do the right thing. The hissing told me: It was time.

So, at a little after 3 today, our veterinarian, who’s always marveled at how healthy and down-right tough she was for a cat of her advanced years, gave her a strong sedative, followed by two super doses of tranquilizers that slowed her breathing, and then stopped it.

In her 20 years, Motley had gone from Maryland to Virginia to California, back to Virginia, then to Wisconsin, right back around eight or nine weeks later, around Virginia, over to Egypt, back to Virginia and finally, back to California.

She was my brother’s confidante when he was a high school freshman trying to readjust to America after five years overseas.

She was my comfort when my first love dumped me, and then got engaged five months later to a guy she’d only met just as we broke up.

At some point along the line, Motley decided I was hers, and she was mine, and would walk across roommates and family members, just to be with me.

She lived alone for a month in a national forest, when she went walkabout, as all cats want to do at least once.

She knew over a dozen words of English, and used to race up the stairs of the townhouse I shared in Springfield, Virginia, and leap four feet through the air to land on my bed when I called her at bed time.

When I came down with a mystery illness earlier this year, she curled up against me, there when I fell asleep from my fatigue, and there when I woke up.

At the end of her life, she nuzzled my hand, getting her cheeks a good scratching one last time.

When I follow her into the dark one day, I expect to find her there waiting for me, waiting for me to pop open a cat of cat food already.