One morning a few years ago, Anne walked out into our garage to put some towels or something into the dryer. I heard the door close, and a minute of so later, she called out to me, “Wil? Can you come in here? Quickly?”
There was a tiny bit of urgency in her voice, so I jumped up from the couch, ran through the kitchen, across the breezeway, and into the garage. She stood next to the dryer, a pile of wet clothes in her hands.
“Is everything okay?” I said.
“Shh!” She said, and pointed to the middle of the garage. “Listen!”
I did, and after a few moments, I heard a very soft meowing. Both of my cats were indoor cats, so I called out, “Biko? Sketch?”
I turned to Anne. “How did they get out of the house?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but —”
A sleek black cat came walking out from beneath one of several piles of crap we have out there (putting a car into our garage is about as likely as one of us building a rocket in the backyard and colonizing the moon). He had bright yellow/green eyes, a white star on his chest, and little white “socks” on his front paws. He had no tail.
“Hey, Kitty!” Anne said, “what are you doing in my garage?”
She shoved the clothes into the dryer, and crouched down on the floor. The cat began purring loudly as he walked over to her. She extended her hand and he rubbed his little face up against it.
“You are such a little Bear!” She said, as she scratched his ears.
I’ve seen this from her before: she was in love. She looked up at me, like a child. “Can we keep him?”
“We already have two cats, Anne,” I said, “and what if someone misses him?”
“We’ll wait a week, and look for signs around the neighborhood. If we don’t find signs, and he’s still here, we’ll take him to the vet and make sure he’s healthy.”
I’ve also seen this from her before: her mind was made up.
For the next week, he stayed on our patio, and we looked for signs in our neighborhood. We called local shelters. pet stores, and vets and asked if anyone had reported a missing kitty. Nobody had. As far as we could tell, this kitty had just shown up out of thin air; if anyone missed him, they weren’t being very vocal about it.
The first few days of that week, I tried not to get too attached to him, but whenever I walked out onto the patio, he’d talk to me a bunch. If I got close to him, he’d start to purr and rub up against my legs. He was so affectionate, it took about three days for my him to win me over. I started counting down to the seventh day, when we would take him to the vet and know for sure if he could officially become a member of our family.
At the end of the week, we took him to the vet and had him checked for diseases and stuff.
“What’s his name?” The receptionist asked us.
Anne and I looked at each other. Over the week, we had both loved this little guy a lot, but we’d never thought to name him.
“Oscar?” I said.
She smiled and shook her head. “No.” She turned to the receptionist and said, “His name is Felix.”
“Yeah!” I said, “Felix the cat!”
While we were there, we saw a picture on the wall of a cat that looked just like him, and we found out that he was a special breed called a Japanese Bobtail. Over the next few years, this would lead to us calling him “Stumpy,” and referring to his activity as “just stumpin’ around in the yard.” His blood work came back the following day: he was free from all diseases, but his kidney levels were a little high — probably the result of him being just a little dehydrated. We know now that it was much worse, but at the time we were blissfully ignorant, and the Wheaton household grew by one.
We brought him home, and introduced him to our cats. Biko was indifferent, but Sketch cranked at him right away. Ever since he was a kitten, Sketch has been a daddy’s — then (and now) a momma’s — boy. He didn’t like that there was a new kitty in our house who would be siphoning away some of the attention and affection. For the next week or so, there was a lot of peeing on the furniture, but eventually, Biko and Sketch accepted that this new kitty wasn’t going to leave, and his arrival didn’t diminish our love for them.
Felix loved us, but always on his terms. There’s a saying, “Dogs have masters. Cats have staff” and so it was with Felix. He was always affectionate, but he made it clear that he wasn’t our cat: we were his people. We didn’t mind at all.
A few years passed, and Felix brought all kinds of joy into our lives. He had his “rotation,” where he’d sleep on Ryan’s bed for a week or so, then Nolan’s, then with me and Anne. Even though he was just a cat, when he chose to put you on his rotation, you couldn’t help but feel special. Chosen.
We learned quickly that Felix didn’t take any shit from anyone, especially other cats. In the first year that we were his people, he went to the vet several times for shots and stitches after fights with other neighborhood cats. When he went outside, Anne and I started telling him, “Watch for cars, and don’t get into any fights!” He rarely listened, but he was an incredibly tough little guy who earned his nickname “The Bear,” and as far as we know, he never lost a single fight.
About two years ago, we noticed that he spent a couple of days acting a little strange. He didn’t want to be cuddled, he wouldn’t eat very much, and he just looked like he didn’t feel well. We figured it was the result of his latest fight, so Anne took him to the vet for more antibiotics. When she came home, her eyes were red and her cheeks were shiny with tears.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“The vet said that Felix doesn’t feel well because he’s having kidney failure. He could die within a month.” She collapsed onto our bed and sobbed. I did my best to comfort her, while I processed the shock of the news.
“Is there anything we can do?” I said.
“We may be able to give him special food and fluids, but —”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” I said. And we did. We gave him some fluids every morning, put him onto special food, and gave him a little extra love. Within a couple of days, The Bear was stumpin’ around the yard, chasing birds across the grass, and curling up in our laps whenever we sat on the couch. His sleeping rotation put him into our room, and I fell asleep for many nights listening to his soft purring.
The rest of that year, he had ups and downs. One terrifying weekend Felix was rushed to the emergency vet because the gardener sprayed weed killer in our front yard — which I’d specifically told him not to do — and Felix had walked through it. During that stay at the vet’s, I visited him often. WWdN readers were really supportive of Anne and me, and I blogged a “note” from The Bear:
“Hi. ThiS iS FELix. My Mom AND Dad ToLD mE HoW MUCh WWDN ReADerS SupPoRteD ThEM whiLe I wAs SiCK, aND i WaNT to sAY ThANK you. ThEy LovE ME A loT AnD I KnOW THIS Was hard FoR thEM.”
During that stay, we found out that his kidney disease had progressed more rapidly than we expected. He was up to about 85% failure, and he was starting to become anemic. He had lost a bunch of weight, and was down to about 11 pounds. Again, we made mental preparations for the worst, and again Felix surprised us all by bouncing right back to life.
A few weeks ago, Felix started to look and act like he felt icky, so we took him to the vet yet again. This came on the heels of my cat Sketch’s near-death experience, so my nerves were pretty frayed. “I wish I could get frequent flier miles here,” I joked to the receptionist for the hundredth time. She politely pretended that I wasn’t the most annoying pet owner in the world.
We ran some tests on him, and the results confirmed our worst fears: his kidneys were almost completely destroyed, and he had developed such a severe case of anemia his body wasn’t able to get any nutrition out of his food. He was, quite literally, wasting away.
It was clear that if we didn’t do anything, he was going to die within a few days. We talked it over with our vet, and she told us that our options were to put Felix to sleep, or give him Epogen injections three times a week, sub-q fluids twice a day, liquid vitamins and an aluminum hydroxyde suspension each morning. It seemed like an awful lot of stuff to do, but Anne and I talked about it, and tried to figure out what was best for Felix, we would not prolong his life simply because we didn’t want to say goodbye . . . but if we could help him feel better, and have good quality of life, then we would do whatever we could afford to do. We talked it over with his vet, and decided that we’d try this out for two weeks.
“What are the odds of him bouncing back?” I asked his vet.
“If it was any other cat, I’d say very slim,” she said, “but Felix is one of the toughest kitties I’ve ever seen. Honestly, his kidney values are so high, any other kitty would have died by now.”
“Is there anything we should watch for?”
She told us what I’ve heard from hundreds of WWdN readers: “Your cat will let you know if he’s ready to go, or if he wants to stick around and try to feel better.”
That was two weeks ago. For the first week, Felix perked up, but he didn’t bounce back the way he always had before. He stopped being reclusive, but he wasn’t as affectionate as he’d always been. I hoped against hope that he’d miraculously recover, like he always did, but it just wasn’t happening. I realized that I was watching him die.
A few nights ago, I sat in my dining room and read my book. I felt something brush up against my leg. I looked down and saw The Bear. He was so skinny (just over six pounds) his spine stood up on his back like Mr. Burns.
“How are you feeling, The Bear?” I said.
He let out a slow and quiet meow, and walked into the living room. He wavered when he walked, like he was unsteady, or uncomfortable, or both. When he was about fifteen feet away from me, he stopped, crouched down on the floor, and flicked his little stump.
“Your cat will let you know if he’s ready to go . . .”
I got up from the table and walked over to him. I felt a lump rising in my throat as I got down next to him on the floor.
“Are you done?” I said.
He flicked his stump, and looked up at me. His eyes looked a little cloudy; his third eyelid was closed about a third of the way.
“Okay, Felix. Okay.” I scratched his little bony head. He purred weakly and tightly shut his eyes.
I knew this moment would come, and I hoped that I’d be prepared to face it, but I wasn’t. Huge sobs shook my body. Giant tears fell off my face and ran down my nose.
Ferris cautiously walked over to me from the kitchen. She stopped about three feet from me, sat down, and cocked her head to one side.
“Felix is dying, Ferris,” I said. “I’m okay. I’m just sad.”
She sighed, and laid down on the floor with her head between her paws. She watched me while I sat there and cried.
Later that night, Anne and I had The Talk. We decided that we’ve done all that we can to help him, but it’s just not enough. He’s not really living now . . . he’s just staying alive. We promised each other, and we promised Felix, that we wouldn’t keep him alive just because we didn’t want to say goodbye. Yesterday morning, I called the vet and had The Talk with her. We made an appointment to bring Felix in tomorrow morning.
I know I’m doing the right thing, but that doesn’t make it any easier. As I’ve written this today (and it’s taken most of the day to write — I’ve had to stop writing this several times just to get a grip on myself.) I have realized that Felix hasn’t been The Bear for a long time.
I will miss seeing him stand up and stretch himself out on the trunk of Anne’s car, before he jumps down onto the driveway and greets me when I open my car door. I will miss him jumping up into my car, and talking to me while he walks around and explores the passenger compartment. I will miss watching him sit in the grass and torment the squirrel in the tree next door. I will miss watching him stump around in the backyard. But most of all, I will miss being on his rotation. Even when he decided that four in the morning was when he needed to go outside, and the best way to accomplish that was to run across our heads until one of us woke up and let him out.
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Wil, this must be heartbreaking for you and your family. I’m so sorry. It’s the best thing you can do for Felix now, but I’m sure that doesn’t make it any easier. *Hugs* to everyone.
This made me cry… I’m so sorry for you.
*dabs her eyes with a tissue*
They do tell you when it’s time. I’ll be thinking of you and yours tomorrow, and sending as much strength and healing mojo as I can spare.
You *are* doing the right thing, Wil. You know that. Sometimes the right thing to do is also the hardest.
Warm Healing Hugs To All,
The Goddess of Justice and Vengeance
I can’t say much because I have tears in my eyes.
Letting go is harder than anything in the world.
We lost one of our dogs to a terminal illness
5 years ago. It was and is the hardest decision
to let them go into death because they leave us
behind.
My thoughs are with you and your lovely family Wil.
May Felix pass in the warmth and comfort of
your love.
It’s always hard to lose the ones we love. It sounds like you and Felix both got something out of your time together. Thank you for being such a great cat-dad (and for Anne being a great cat-mom) to such a lost loving little boy. He’ll be there on the other side waiting for you when you get there. Love and peace I wish for you all in this rough time.
oh wil, i’m so sorry to hear about felix. i know just how much you can get attached to a cat… especially one that finds you.
wil, we’ll be sending our good thoughts, our prayers, our karma, whatever you need, tomorrow. he’ll be going on to a better place tomorrow, one with less pain.
Sorry Wil. You and your family will be in my thoughts.
This is not going to be much consolation, but Felix knows that you all love him. And he loves you too! He will always be special. *hugs* for you and yor family.
Kris
Well, crap.
That’s just really too bad. Even though it’s not unexpected. Poor little guy… you’re doing the right thing Wil, but that sure doesn’t make it any easier.
My thoughts are with you and the family.
(BTW… How freakin’ weird yet strangely cool is it that you have this community of folks who are more than ready to give you hugs right now? You’re the one who’s made it happen with your honesty and genuine writing style, ya know. It’s gotta be times like this, as well as the happy-dance moments, that make the hard work all worth it, eh?)
Jenga
*sniff* *wipes away tears* These animals, they make you love them, and then they go and get sick and… and… *sniff* My mum swears she won’t have any more pets, she can’t handle the pain of seeing them off anymore, and I pretty much understand how she feels. Wil, I’m so sorry Felix has reached the stage where he’s ready to go, and that you (as designated adult) has to take the responsibility in taking him to the vet. It is a terrible pain, and although you know it is the right thing to do, it still feels awful. You need to have a kitty wake tonight, celebrate his life, not just mourn his passing.
Sorry to hear about Felix, Wil. I know it hurts, but you are doing right by Felix. My Moo-Cat is 16 yrs. old now, and I know the day will come, but I can’t imagine my house without her.
I probably can’t say anything that hasn’t been said here already, Wil. I’ll keep you all in my thoughts tomorrow as you say goodbye. (hugs)
I’m sorry, Wil.
Oh, Wil!
I know how very hard that decision is to make. Know that you are doing the right thing. My kitty, Bianca, told me when she was ready. I sure wasn’t! But I know that she is in a better place and she is not suffering anymore. You and your family have given Felix so much love, as he has to you. *hugs and love* to you and your family.
Moonie
Oh Wil, I’m so sorry to hear about Felix. I’ve been through the same with both a cat and a ferret, and it’s never easy. Knowing in my heart that I’d want them to do the same for me if the situation were reversed didn’t make the sadness any less complete. Wish him Long Days and Pleasant Nights for me.
this was a beautiful remembrance of Felix’s life. i got teared up just reading it, and had to go hug our kitty (who actually wandered into my roommates’ lives in a very similar manner).
i’m so sorry that you have to let him go, but also think you are doing what’s best for felix, continuing your obvious love and devotion to him. support and love to you and yours.
Nothing is going to make you feel better – I know. But my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.
Thank you for sharing it with us – that must have taken a lot.
Oh, I’m so sorry for you and your family. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to lose such a loving family member, but I hope it’s some comfort to you that he had a wonderful, pampered life for as long as he was with you. You’re all in my thoughts. –Jessica
I am so sorry to hear about Felix, but at least you have had some time to prepare yourself, even though I know how difficult that is to really do! I lost my dog of 14 years 4 years ago. There is still a hole in my heart that is his! Losing a pet is never easy. My thoughts and prayers are with you for this tough time you are having!
Wil, first time commenter. I’ve only been lurking here for a short time, but I really love reading your writings.
I am so sorry to hear about Felix. A lot of others have said this more eloquently than I, but, I do truly wish you the best, and my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family through this loss.
I was so sorry to read about Felix. I went through a similar experience with one of my kitties this fall, and I know it’s a heartbreaking time for you all. Thank you for taking the time to share your wonderful memories of Felix with us. He is clearly a very lucky kitty. My thoughts are with you all. –LJ
Oh Wil.
My heart goes out to you.
~Lil
I’m crying because this will be me eventually. Both my cats are feline leukemia positive. The story of the first one coming into my life is very similar to Felix … so affectionate, such a tough guy, with an attitude that wants to take on the world but with a body that can’t.
The most memorable friends we have are the ones who choose us. My Lily and I both wish Felix well, and you and your family comfort and happy memories.
Wil,
I just wanted to add my well-wishes to the avalanche of them cascading down from above this one. I also wanted to thank you for sharing such a personal and painful memory with all of us. Your blog showed up in my life almost as suddenly and unexpectedly as Felix showed up in yours, and since then, it has touched, inspired, entertained, and educated me in countless ways, and I suspect most of the others here feel the same. As you make it through this difficult time, know that you have the love, respect, and support of all of us to help you through it. As a certain firefly captain would say, “That’s not nuthin’.” Best of wishes to you and yours, and please let us know if there is anything else we can do to help.
Much mojo, lots of love,
Drave
Wil Wheaton Posse Member #four hojillion five and a half gazillion and eleventy-two
Oh Wil–I am so sad for you and your family. I am still sobbing as I type this. I can’t even imagine what you are going through.
My heartfelt sympathies and thoughts go out to you and your family.
My deepest condolences, Wil. You are not alone. I think most of us with pets feel the way you do. I’ve lost two kitties in my life so far, as well as a beloved family dog when I was younger. It’s never easy but you know you’re doing the right thing, you’re stopping their suffering – and it’s exactly right, they do let you know when it’s time. I don’t mind the twice daily medicine for my cat Datsa because I almost lost him last year and as far as I’m concerned every moment he’s with me now is a blessing. Take comfort in the fact that that Felix knows he has been loved.
This is very sad. I know how attatched I am to my kitty and I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you right now.
You (and your family) have my sympathies.
Your story reminds me of many things. My family are cat lovers to the end, and we’ve had many cats come and go. It’s not easy. They’re not pets, they’re members of the family. That is probably why this also reminded me of my grandmother, who died of a similar illness. I admire your strength. For me, it’s been over a year since that happened, and I never really talked about it to anyone.
Try not to dwell on the painful memories. Remember him for the tough little rascal he was.
I would say it better if I had the words, but I don’t. I’ve been where you are now. I know, and I’m sorry.
I am so sorry for you and your family. Like so many others here, I know how hard it is to lose a beloved family pet. At least you know you did everything you could for him, and he let you know when he was ready. He went on his terms. My sympathies to all of you.
Hey Wil and family, I have started typing this too many times and like someone said above, I just can’t find the words. I am so sorry for you and your family but you have made a very unselfish decision for Felix and he will be going to a place where he will be free of pain and illness. Your story about his life was very touching and a wonderful tribute to a beautiful Bear. Thanks for sharing and my thoughts and prayers and with you and Anne and the boys through this difficult time.
Now everyone at work is wondering why I’m crying… 🙁 Oh Wil, I’m so sorry for you, Anne & the boys. It’s so hard to lose a furry member of your family. My sympathies to you all. Huggles, rissatoo.
Sympathies Wil. We just put down our third cat to succumb to renal failure in a 3 year span, two of them within months of each other.
It’s so very very hard to see them slowly fail and then let go. I’m convinced though, that helping them find peace is more humane than letting them linger. With our momma cat, we let it go too long and I wish we could have spared her some of that pain.
I often feel though, as if their spirits are watching over us still from somewhere. Gone, but never forgotten.
Wil, you’ll probably never read this but my wife and I went through a situation that was so similar that I’m a little taken aback.
It’s nice to know that there are people like you out there.
My deepest condolences, Wil. Anyone who loves their kitties this much must be a Good Person, and it’s so hard to hear about something like this. My kitties are my babies, they’re so precious to me, and I cry thinking of something happening to them. I cried hearing that it’s time for Felix to go, and we’re sending you lots of love, mojo, vibes, and other miscellaneous hippie stuff from the SF Bay Area.
O Bubastis, Goddess of the Nile, pray keep watch for the arrival of a little black-and-white bobtail cat named Felix, who never scratched or bit without just cause, who has been loved so much by his people, Wil, Anne, Nolan, and Ryan, and who returned that love in full measure. Bear him forthwith to the Eternal Catnip Fields, where he may enjoy his well-deserved rest forevermore.(I’m fighting back tears as well…I dread the day when this happens to Star, even if it won’t be for years yet…)
I am very sorry that you are going through this. Thank you for being so open, and sharing this with everyone so that we can be there for you in some minor way.
My thoughts are with you and yours.
Wil –
I am so sorry to hear about Felix. My thoughts are with you and the family (including the furry ones).
A beautiful tribute, Wil. Bright blessings on you and yours, and especially your fur people.
It’s a cruel trick that whoever assigned life expectancies played on us. Our pets are designed to live only a fraction of the time that we do. It’s like having to find a new best friend every twenty years or so as they pass on (if you’re lucky).
He’ll always be The Bear to you all, and no one can take your memories of him away.
I’m so sorry. I know how you feel. I had a cat a few years back … had her for 16 years. And I had to make that tough decision. It’s not easy. Still isn’t after all this time. I’m so sorry.
i have 5 cats i call “mine” (but we all know they own me) … and i dread this day. 5 times over.
my heart breaks for you and your family.
namaste.
So long, Felix. Be good up there.
Wil & Anne, Felix needs you to watch over each other now that he’ll be busy elsewhere.
Fortunately, most of us will never have to watch our human children die. Unfortunately, nearly all of us have lived through countless deaths of our animal children, which are usually just as painful and not as much therapy offered.
When our family great dane, Hal, developed bone cancer in his leg and had it amputated, my mother bawled to me, “I could’ve lived with you having your leg amputated more easily!”
“What?!” I thought my mother was SERIOUSLY gone in the head. “You would rather me lose my leg than the DOG!?”
“Well, not really,” she sniffed. “But at least I could’ve told you all of the things we could do for you. We could get you a prosthetic. I could use humor on you and tell you you’d have free parking for life…but with Hal, I can’t tell him anything he understands! When I go to pick him up tomorrow (she hadn’t seen him yet after surgery), he will just be angry with me!”
When she picked him up the next day, he was so excited he began racing around the room on three legs, forgetting he didn’t have the fourth and immediately compensating for it.
Our family made the decision for chemo with Hal (he lived another joyous six months as my sweet “tripod”), and I am happy that you did as much as possible for Felix. I am also relieved that you are not embarrassed about your feelings for this animal child, as it further helps everyone to understand how meaningful the human/animal relationship can be.
Wow. I normally just read the feed over at LiveJournal, but this had me in tears, so I absolutely had to come, register, and legitimately comment.
What can ever be said in such a situation, though? I know how it feels to a certain extent, though one can never claim to really know exactly how another human being feels, even if they’ve been through similar circumstances. I had two cats, from the same litter, since they were newborn kittens and I was six years old; about six years ago, one of them had an anneurism (which I still cannot spell to this day), went into heart failure, and, ultimately, had to be put down. He just spent the whole day as we ran from vet to vet and eventually to an emergency clinic hiding in his carrier, curling up in my lap when he was in the examination rooms, and giving me the most weary, mournful looks. He could have undergone a drastic, open-heart surgery and been on treatments for years to come, but even the vets said it was no way to force him to live and that he’d likely be in pain for the rest of his life until he died prematurely anyway.
When I got home, my other cat was waiting for us, though he didn’t even go to the carrier to look for his brother. It was as if he knew, just the same, that it had been time. The vets said that it was likely to affect his health and happiness adversely, but even with him now at age fourteen and getting on fifteen, he’s the same kitten he ever was. He seemed to be deeply upset for a few days, and he mourned with us and stayed closer to us than usual, but he seemed to realize that it had been for the best as well.
Like any other living creature, a cat knows when it’s time to let go, and being kept alive so artificially is not any way to live. I know how much of a heartbreak it can be to have to say goodbye, but in the end, it really is the right thing to do. You’ve earned plenty of respect from me for having the strength to do right by the kitty.
I know you’ll all pull through okay, but my thoughts will be with you and yours. And don’t worry too much – I’m sure there are tons of other cats ready for a good fight in the feline great beyond. From what I can tell, I’m pretty confident that The Bear’s sure to give ’em heck.
I’m so sorry Wil.
I had to go through exactly the same thing with my kitty, Sampo, five years ago. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do. She died of kidney failure at two years and a half years old. I know how horrible it is. *hugs* I don’t have any words of wisdom that anyone else hasn’t said yet, I just wanted to send my thoughts with you, your family and Felix. *hugs*
I think the hardest part about having to make the decision of letting a pet go is that people who don’t have pets don’t seem to understand the attachment. I am very glad that you have enough support, both in family, friends, and online folks, that you know we all feel your loss. And we each have our stories to tell.
My thoughts go out to your family.
My sincere and heartfelt condolences, Wil.
I’m so very sorry about your kitty. I know the best thing isn’t always the easiest, and my heart goes out to you and your family… both human and pets.