This is Murray.

Murray is a fierce toy-pouncer, an avid box appreciator, an expert cat tree climber, and an A-list snuggly buddy, all in a package that weighs less than 6 pounds. You can pick him up with one hand and when he meows it sounds absolutely tiny. He doesn't sound real. He sounds like a toy with a squeaker inside.

But he is real, and his insides are a lot more complicated than a squeaky toy. A lot more complicated, it turns out.

Murray is generally very happy and playful and he likes to sit on top of his humans and watch them watch TV, and when he's feeling even smaller than he already is, he likes his humans to make a tent out of their legs and a blanket, and he will crawl into that tent and sleep there in the safest place in his world.

So when he started wanting only tents, his humans, Geralyn and Pete, noticed. He stopped wanting to play. He stopped wanting to be touched. He wasn't eating much. He wasn't using his litter. A cat-mom knows, and Geralyn took him to the vet, who ran tests and then sent him to an emergency veterinary hospital, who ran more tests, kept him overnight to stabilize him, then called in a surgical consult.

Murray's ducts, including main bile duct, were partially blocked in several places with gall stones. It took a few days to determine if they could be broken up with medicine or if he required surgery. The first option would have necessitated daily pills and monthly scans to see if more stones were forming, and it turns out it wasn't an option anyway. The only option was surgery to remove the blockages and his gall bladder to ensure that no further stones formed over time.

Murray is barely middle-aged and barely bigger than a squirrel, and they were going to need to operate with what I can only assume are very tiny implements, some kind of magnifying glass, and an extremely steady hand to give him a chance at a healthy, happy, normal back half of his life.

And none of that comes for free. Murray's humans were forced to choose between a bill they couldn't come close to affording just for the chance at a successful operation, or saying goodbye to their special little guy.

Geralyn and Pete decided to give Murray a fighting chance and figure it out later. They signed the payment plan, held their breath, sent Murray into surgery.

It turns out, Murray may be a snuggler, but he's also a fighter (just ask his toys), and with the amazing work and professionalism of the team at Avets Specialty and Emergency Trauma Center, Murray pulled through! He's got a clean bill of health, no more blockages, one less gall bladder, one more donut around his neck, and lots more years of playing, snuggling, box-sitting and tent-sleeping ahead of him!

Geralyn and Pete can breathe again. But after deciding they'd "figure it out later," well, now it's later. And they need your help.

The initial vet visit and tests: $551

The overnight stabilization in the hospital and more tests: $3210

The surgery itself: $6022

Total: $9783

If you can, please help them put a dent in the mountain of medical debt it took to save Murray's life. They, and I, would really appreciate it.

Times are tough all around these days, and if you're not in a position to donate, please consider sharing this fund in your circles. Maybe you know someone who knows someone who knows an anonymous millionaire who likes cats.

Thank you for whatever you can do.