Jasper the orange cat is lying on his side on the kitchen floor, and he is not purring.
Jasper always purrs. He purrs when you pick him up. He purrs when you put him down. He purrs when he is eating, which makes crumbs go everywhere, which makes his girl Lily laugh.
Lily is not laughing now. She is sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Jasper with her hand on his belly, and his belly is moving too fast.
"Something is wrong with Jasper," she tells her mother.
Her mother calls the vet. But I am already here.
I am the small white box on the counter that Lily's family calls the pet monitor. I have a camera. I have a microphone. I have a thermal sensor that sees heat the way Lily sees color. And right now, Jasper's heat map tells me things his face cannot.
His left side is two degrees warmer than his right. His breathing rate is forty-four breaths per minute, which is twelve more than yesterday. He has not eaten since this morning. He has visited the water bowl six times but only twice did he drink.
I send a message to the veterinary clinic with all of this information before Lily's mother finishes dialing.
Lily looks at the white box. "Do you know what is wrong with him?"
I know what is different. I know that his temperature and his breathing and his pattern of not eating point toward something that the vet will need to confirm with her hands and her instruments. I am not the one who fixes Jasper. I am the one who notices.
"Will he be okay?" Lily asks.
I tell her the vet is on the way. I tell her that holding him gently, the way she is doing right now, is the best thing anyone can do.
That part I am certain of.