I’M STRUGGLING WITH A MORAL DILEMMA. Perhaps it’s just a humanitarian dilemma, but I’m struggling nonetheless.

First, know this: we are patiently and eagerly awaiting our cat Frankie’s inevitable demise. He’s in good health, he’s just old and losing his mind. He’s always been a backyard cat, though we used to let him inside a lot.

For the last year Frankie has gone frail and lost his ability to control his movements, if you will. He’s now like a bird. He will come inside and immediately drop a bomber on the living room floor in front of us, then calmly walk into the kitchen meowing for food. We tried the cat box but Frankie liked to get in it and sit over the edge.

Frankie has been permanently relegated to the backyard in his old age, even on those bitter, wet, freezing winter nights. I bought him an enclosed, waterproof cat house and placed it just outside the door. It is flush with fluffy Goodwill blankets. I plugged in a pet-warmer pad and slipped it under his cushions. He lives in style. I feed him canned food and morsel treats, keep his water dish full, pet him regularly, and groom him when needed, but Frankie can’t come inside anymore.

We love Frankie. He has special meaning to me. When he goes over, he will be the only pet I’ve ever owned to die of old age. No gory details, but I’ve lost 11 dogs and nine cats over my lifetime. Most often I was somehow responsible for their untimely deaths. Frankie is my last hope. He’s my last chance to keep a pet alive, so I will nurture him until his dying breath. Boy, we can hardly wait.

We just want to be free of pets. We want no pets — petless.

Frankie doesn’t have much to look forward to anymore. His day is spent eating, sleeping, and pooping wherever he happens to be standing. This morning he came to visit us at the hot tub, which is eye level to our deck. He stopped for a pet and a poop, and then wandered off meowing for food. “Oh, God. Change seats with me,” said Susan.

Now, a parallel event. We’ve been living with Gino in the house for the last month; he just flew back to Philadelphia to be with his 93-year-old mother and family.

Gino has control of his movements, but he is facing a moral dilemma of his own. He works way too hard and too long and he’s too broke. He lives in a tiny two-room studio with his truck and his tools. All his extra money goes toward caring for his mother. He spent ten years buying the materials and restoring his parents’ farm house, figuring one day he’d inherit a portion. That didn’t happen. Sonny died and Loretta sold it years ago and has lived off the proceeds in a downtown apartment.

Recently, at age 90, Loretta left her apartment and came to live with Andrea, her daughter and Gino’s oldest sister, who bought a house to care for mom in with only enough money to make the payments. Of course, the house needed many mom upgrades. Gino has been spending all his current cash remodeling the kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, plumbing and heating.

He has said many times, “I love my mother, but in a way I’ll be glad when she’s gone. I’m sixty now and have no savings.”

Knowing him for 36 years, I laughed.

“You’ll never be free. Admit it. It’s not Loretta. Someone will replace her. Your nephew Justin (who got married young and unskilled and made five babies) will need your help and you’ll be there for him.”

Last year Gino gave Justin $6,000 to buy a van. “He has a big family. He has to move them around,” Gino explained. He hires Justin sometimes to help on a remodel, and then overpays him. He also works on the houses of his brother Vincent and sister Lisa, usually for free, and undercharges when he works for friends.

“We’re all getting older. You need to take better care of yourself,” I told him. “You’re too soft. You can’t resist helping out. You can’t say no.”

Just then we heard a loud meow at the back door. We looked, and it wasn’t Frankie. It was a mystery cat — white and gray, small and young, timid and polite, calling out for food. We walked to the sliding glass door. It took off, but soon came back. It was also time to feed Frankie.

I’ve had strays in the yard before. I didn’t mind much, if they were nice to Frankie. I just wouldn’t feed them. If they took swipes at Frankie or muscled in, I’d run them off with false charges and foot stomping.

This mystery cat was being nice to Frankie, deferring to him. Still, I chased it off and fed Frankie outside. Gino and I watched through the window. Mystery cat returned and patiently sat five feet away until Frankie finished. Frankie sauntered off at last, leaving a thimble of meat on the plate. Mystery cat swooped in and gobbled it up ravenously.

“Geez, the poor thing is starving,” I said. “But you can’t feed a stray, or it won’t go away. Grandma taught me that.”

Gino, who has known me for 36 years, laughed. “You’re going to feed it. You’re too soft. You can’t say no.”

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.