My daughter Franny and I drove our cat to a hospice in Hershey, Pennsylvania yesterday. Muffin isn’t that old — she’s only two — but somewhere along the line she got it in her little cat brain that our furniture was her litter box. For over a year we tried diffferent remedies for various problems: special food for the crystals the vet found in her urine, antibiotics for urinary infections, new litter box, new litter, a cat door so she could come and go as she pleased… But after reupholstering some old furniture and finally getting new furniture all together we decided that Muffin has a will of her own and reasons for doing what she was doing that no human could fathom. (My sister April, who does pet rescue in Texas, said it was one of the biggest problems they had with cats.)

For the last two weeks Muffin had been sitting at the vet’s office, on death row basically, while we have looked for a home for her. As cute as she is, people tended to lose interest when we mentioned the little peeing problem. Even BARK, the Brooklyn animal rescue place endorsed by the Beastie Boys and other living things, told me that it was unlikely I would find a home for her. “The best thing to do at this point is just to euthanize her,” said the fellow I spoke to. When the animal rescue guy says it’s time to kill your cat, you know you’re in trouble.

But then our friend Nancy Castle told us about a place she took a mixed-up cat of hers. Called The Best Little Cat House in Pennsylvania this 25-year-old institute of last resort caters to cats that are terminally ill, generally with feline AIDS and leukemia, and anti-social creatures such as Muffin. After a couple of conversations with Lynn Stitt, the woman who runs the place, we made a date to take our kitty there. And though Franny tried to avoid the onerous, six-hour round trip the night before, I made a fatherly call.

“She was your cat,” I reminded her, even as she turned on the water works. “This is part of the responsibility of having a pet. Besides, don’t you want to know what Muffin’s new home is going to look like?”

By Sunday morning Franny had rallied and even passed on my half-hearted offer to take her to Hershey Park afterwards. She wanted to get home and do her homework — I think in time to watch the Real World but whatever. Muffin cried the whole way, pausing long enough to catch her breath, and we alternately chatted and tuned her out. It was a beautiful fall day and the leaves were just starting to change. The last time I drove to this part of PA was when I was doing volunteer work for Kerry last year. At least I didn’t have any illusions about the cat’s prospects.

The house itself is like cat heaven — providing they like other cats. The main dome room is devoted to the terminally ill, weak bony little babies some of whom are dying to be held (as well as dying). Franny cuddled one for a few minutes before we went to the well-cat room. There was a blind cat curled up on the floor. A cat with what looked like cerebral palsy came walking up to us sideways. Outside on the fenced in porches were cats on every conceivable perch, watching the activity outdoors (cows lowing in the field next door, the odd deer). Some were feral — one-eyed, six-fingered — including one gang of misfits the women called The Bikers. Muffin hissed at them all in greeting and then we were on our way.

Pulling out onto the country lane Franny began to cry. I stopped the car to say that Muffin was going to be fine, that she would have a long and happy life there. “It’s not her,” my big-hearted girl sobbed, “it’s those other cats who are going to die. It just makes me feel so sad.” But within five minutes she was on the phone, reporting about the experience to her friends.

Just like I’m doing now.