FAYETTEVILLE, Ark. — As a child, one of the experiences I loved more than anything was being at my grandmother’s house while the Razorbacks were on and my uncle Danny Ray was on the couch taking it all in with his brothers.

He was by far the largest of his siblings in every way. He was a gentle giant with immense physical power and a personal energy that lit the room similar to John Candy.

When good things happened for Arkansas, and they often did during the late days of Ken Hatfield and late 19080s tenure of Nolan Richardson, he would get physically animated and might very well send someone flying from the couch with his arms flailing in his excitement.

While it was possible to leave with a bruise or two, it was practically impossible to not head out that old screen door with a lighter heart and general happiness created from having been in his presence. When he died, I knew there was no way sitting in a room full of Razorbacks fans would ever feel that way again.

Fast forward several decades and life both on the field for the football team and off the field in my personal life had taken on a near constant state of negative experiences with only the smallest sprinkles of positivity and hope thrown in between.

A bout with cancer that was initially won was followed by a devastating car wreck that severely damaged me and nearly took my son. While he soon recovered, the trauma of being spun around and essentially having my stomach muscles torn across the middle led to the exact set of cirmcumstances needed to trigger once dormant cancer cells to return.

As a result, my ability to cover Arkansas athletics in person became a thing of the past. Instead, while the rest of my Razorbacks on SI team took turns being the eyes in the stadium, I explored the fans’ perspective from home.

When possible, I try to watch the games with as many Hogs fans as I can because it helps to see their immediate raw emotion, especially in landmark moments like when Davonte Davis left it all on the floor in the NCAA Tournament against Kansas or the inexplicable loss to LSU in the College World Series this past spring.

All the while, through the majority of the highs and mostly lows that have been experienced by Razorbacks fans, without my knowing, a small black and white cat would sneak into my lap and curl up. I would find myself in need of taking a second to make a note about a fumble, interception or penalty and there she would be, peacefully napping as if she had been there the whole time.

Her name is Oreo. She was a rescue from a shelter back when my then four-year-old daughter wore my wife down and convinced her she could have a kitty.

When we arrived, the place was loaded with cats because they rarely get adopted and so many roamed the streets of North Texas at the time. I wandered around hoping to identify the perfect one, but when my daughter came and drug me into another room to see the “sweet kitty” she wanted, it was clear we had different tastes.

A cat labeled Tootsie, which we later figured out was because of a stomach issue she had at the time as a result of the food they were feeding her and not because a shelter worker loved 1980s movies, had barricaded herself deep under a low table.

Any attempt to get the cat out to see what had my daughter so enthralled was met with an angry howl and sharp claws. I tried to convince her to take pretty much any other cat, but she recognized immediately what we figured out after a couple of days of having her in our home — the cat had been severely abused before coming to the shelter and was in desperate need of love.

Fortunately for her, my daughter was overflowing with animal love. Tootsie’s back door gas issues were soon resolved, her name was then replaced with Oreo, more reflective of her short tuxedo style hair look, and, even though she ripped a gash down my arm over a foot long when I had to rescue her from the attic, I began to offer her love as well.

Three years later, my son came along and Oreo became the first pet he ever knew. Others came and went, but this stubborn cat who was determined to break world records with longevity of life as she kept plugging along, staying in everyone’s hearts one lap at a time.

As a columnist, the job is to capture the emotion fans feel throughout their experience. However, there are only so many ways their consstant frustration can be turned into words.

It was the soft weight of Oreo in my lap that brought just enough peace to make room for different emotions to be noticed and written about along the way. While others constantly raged, her presence allowed a clear enough mind to try to find humor in the absurdity of it all or find reason for hope where so many were unable to see it.

To be clear, there were some days the misery and sadness of Hogs fans made it impossible to write about anything otherwise, but on evenings the keystrokes led elsewhere, it could often be attributed to the warmth provided by a tiny, aging cat with no intentions other than finding a comfortable place to sleep.

Then, early in the football season, when the cancer treatments were at their most brutally painful and the wolves were clearly at the door, thirsty for Sam Pittman’s blood no matter how the season might play out, I noticed something worrying.

At first I thought it was merely a nightmare, but the twitches coming from the typically still rolled up body of fur appeared to be something much more concerning. They almost looked like mild seizures.

We had joked for at least a year that she was becoming senile. There is no doubt Oreo had spent the summer watching my daughter’s service dog while she was home from college and decided she too is a dog.

She abandoned her food bowl and began scavaging the floor, constantly licking it, looking for anything that might possibly have flavor to it. She then started jumping up on counters with what we noticed were heels that had been rubbed clean of hair.

Try as we may to keep her out of the kitchen, she ignored literally everything done to let her know it was off limits and was often found scraggly tail up with her face buried in a bowl deep below the edge of the sink.

She had to start staying in the laundry room when no one was available to guard whatever might be on the counter. One night, I was certain she was in my lap fast asleep while watching a replay of the Hogs versus Cincinnati exhibition game when I heard a steak I had cooked for my son smack against the floor.

I went in and found Oreo with her teeth buried so deep in the steak that when I went to pick her up, the steak came with her. She refused to give up her contraband.

Still, despite her naughtiness and recent struggles to groom herself, I convinced myself she’s immortal and will find her way into my lap for every Razorbacks game until the good Lord decides it’s time to come home.

Unfortunately, I have watched my last game with that little kitty who essentially served as a pseudo-sister to my daughter while instilling a heart for animals in her that became a big reason why she’s trying to become a wildlife veterinarian.

Earlier this week, on a visit home from college, my daughter took the time to examine Oreo. It seems she is dealing with more than being senile, stubborn and, while knowing what room she is supposed to go to the bathroom in, not fully understanding anymore that such business takes place in the litter box.

While Oreo curled up in a blanket, my daughter noticed the touch of the fabric hurts her now. She explained how cats mask their pain to their owners really well.

There were several other issues she pointed out also, including an extreme sensitivity to the cool of the wood floor, shown through an unwillingness to get off it as quickly as possible and never stop to sit on it. The inability to groom was a red flag as well.

She was pondering whether it’s time for her longest friend to call it a life. The weight loss, protruding hip bones and awkward gait as she walks were hints it was at least close.

Then, a couple of nights ago, she too saw the same trembling during Oreo’s sleep, and immediately, with a crushed heart, said it was time. Putting it off any longer would be nothing but selfish on her part and she couldn’t live with herself if she had to watch Oreo suffer through what appears to be an inevitable painful death of a string of seizures that would put her in immense agony possibly over hours.

So, she made the call. As part of her vet training, she has had to oversee such procedures, but to see her experience it from the other end was heart-breaking.

She described the experience being handled as if she were merely scheduling afternoon tea. It’s weighed on her a lot, but she has made me promise that when 4 p.m. rolls around this afternoon that I will not let her “be selfish” and back out.

Her longest friend is suffering, and she knows it needs to end on their terms together and in as peacful of a manner as possible.

Even though my son has known for a long time that any day now we night wake up and find Oreo has died, it was still brutal for him to hear when I told him.

“These past six years have just been so hard,” he said as he tried to process a clear end date has been set. “It just never stops happening.”

He’s right. It has been a really hard six years.

Arkansas fans talk about how tough it is dealing with Monday after Monday following losses that defy comprehension. Meanwhile, just as often it seems, a young man has dealt with a non-stop stream of awful news where almost nothing good seems to happen that goes far beyond the tiny portion of dramatic family experiences mentioned.

Our life has been a reflection of Arkansas athletics lately. Much like Hogs fans, we keep hoping there’s light just around the next corner.

While my uncle was perfect for the good times of Razorbacks history, Oreo was the perfect fixture for the rough times.

She was the excuse needed to force myself to sit through entire games and not go do something else instead. I didn’t need to make it to the end to know what was ultimately going to happen and how fans would feel, but the job was done much better doing so.

I couldn’t get up with her sleeping peacefully there, and I am grateful I didn’t. I was certain life was going to give me at least one more game with her, even after my daughter decided it was time.

There was no expectation the vet would move so fast in freeing up the calendar.

Watching these games will never be experienced the same way with her gone. It’s just not possible.

However, in Oreo’s honor, I’ll keep a nice round hole formed by the blanket across my lap, and no matter how ridiculous things get when Arkansas and LSU face each other Saturday, I won’t get up.

I’ll be there to the end. Just like I always thought she would be there for me.