My soon-to-be ex-wife and I adopted brother and sister rescue kittens in 2001. They were tiny and fragile - the male never got over 9 lbs, and the female never got over 6 lbs. The female was so delicate that she would get seriously hurt from the slightest bump. She destroyed one of her front legs in a jump gone bad when she was just a few years old, and we had to have the leg amputated after several surgeries to try to fix it. Even though she was small and weak, in her mind she was the toughest cat in the world. She adapted well to being a 3-legged cat, and lived another 6 years, as queen of the household. She developed intestinal cancer at 9 years, and we had to put her down. It was clear to me that she was never meant to survive, but she was a fighter to the end. She wanted to live large her whole life, despite being ill-equipped to do so. The day she died was one of the saddest days I‘ve had so far. My wife was at work on the final day, and the cat waited, struggling to stay alert, until my wife managed to get home, before slipping into a coma. She wanted to say goodbye to both of us. She made it obvious to me that I was not allowed to do anything until that happened. Her brother outlived her by almost 5 years, before succumbing to an acute and rare nervous system disease.