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Lance Loud was dying and in need of a cat.

Tyler and I alone realized this. The only question left was: Where do two broke college students find a cat?

I was a freshman at Biola University. Since Biola requires students to be involved in a ministry, I chose the most uncomfortable one I could think of—working with AIDS patients. I met Lance in early September on my first day volunteering at the Carl Bean House, an AIDS hospice in South Central Los Angeles.

Lance was the first openly homosexual person on television. The first reality show—a '70s documentary called An American Family—followed him and his family around for a series of weeks. On national television Lance shamelessly announced that he was gay. "I didn't just come out of the closet," he later said. "I shot out like an MK-80 missile."

Everything about Lance was loud. Lance had been a writer, stripper, roadie, model, artist, rock star, band manager, television personality, and icon of gay culture. Andy Warhol was his friend and father figure. Lance toured with the Velvet Underground and started the punk-rock band the Mumps. He discovered and promoted outspoken gay musician Rufus Wainwright. His column appeared regularly in The Advocate, a gay magazine with a circulation of nearly 100,000. A recent PBS documentary, A Death in An American Family, chronicled Lance's life and death (www.pbs.org/lanceloud).

We spent two afternoons a week together, yet I spent a month with him before learning he was famous. He was a dying gay celebrity, and I was a straight kid. We didn't talk about church or politics during the four months I got to know him. We talked about art, writing, and faith.

Before being hospitalized, Lance always had at least a dozen cats, all rescued from streets and shelters. The National Enquirer featured an article on Lance and his cats. They ran a photograph with Lance in his apartment, surrounded by cats. As his AIDS progressed, he had to give them up along with his apartment. It was late November and nearly three months into our friendship. Every week I told my friend Tyler new Lance stories. After hearing the stories, he said, "I need to meet Lance. He sounds amazing."

We visited Lance together and listened to his stories about adopting cats. Tyler sat beaming, looking over at me, his eyes expectant. When we got into my truck to drive home, we looked at one another. I started, "We need to …" and Tyler finished, smiling, "… get Lance a cat."

Tyler and I found two free kittens online that night. Though we only needed one cat, we couldn't bear to separate the two. College dorms and AIDS hospices are unwelcoming to cats, but this was an afterthought. I didn't have an opportunity to ask my roommate before bringing the kittens to live with us. I didn't know that he hated cats.

For a week, Tyler and I harbored the kittens, which we named Hope and Lance the Cat. After several days they began using their Tupperware litter box, which they had previously only slept in. Their food dish was a cafeteria salad bowl.

Then I received a phone call that Lance was declining rapidly. Tyler and I left immediately and drove through downtown L.A. traffic to see him. Visiting Lance always meant facing traffic. While we drove and prayed, two restless black kittens explored my truck.

Lance was on oxygen. His hospice room had been converted to a study, gallery, and closet. Leather jackets and vintage shirts overflowed the closet and were draped over chairs and piled on the dresser. Framed photos and artwork covered walls and tables. He was as flamboyant in taste as personality. But Lance was wasting away—he lay, gasping, his stomach bloated, sweat dripping like an IV.

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October 2004, Vol. 48, No. 10