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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I felt compelled to join the ranks of folks who have registered today, just to post a reply to this entry. I am truly sorry for everything you are going through with Felix, and as difficult as it is, acting on the knowledge that he’s let you know its time is commendable. It takes a strong, compassionate person to let go of any loved one in this way, and you have all of my sympathy.
I’m so very sorry. I’ve lost two good friends and that last talk is very hard. You did your best and now you are repaying him for all he has done for you. They give us so much and don’t ask much–just that we are brave and unselfish for them when they most need us to be.
My deepest sympathies.
I’m so sorry, Wil. Many thoughts headed out to you, Anne, and the boys. Sounds like he’s ready to go on, and will be at peace.
I’m so sorry. I went through that with Harley, who was my One True Cat. My foster daughter at the time took my photo with my kitty girl, right before we left for the vet’s. I don’t let anyone see that photo, because we both look so horrible, me and Harley, but I get it out to look at it sometimes.
It’s so heartbreaking and so hard, but it’s the right thing to do.
My thoughts are with you and your family.
Somewhere in kitty heaven, there is a book entitled “The Best Humans Ever Owned,” and you and Anne are in that book.
“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened!”
I’m not sure where I first heard that, but that kept me going when I lost my dog and my cat. Take care, and I’m sure Felix appreciates this and everything you and your family have done for him.
Oh Wil, I am so so sorry about Felix. I know how hard it is. I’ve lost several kitties over the years. I’m crying with you as I write this. Please know that you and your family are in my thoughts.
Big warm hugs,
Tracey
I am so sorry to hear about Felix. I was hoping he would pull through. It seems though, despite the sadness you and your family may have now, that Felix will still leave you with many more happy memories to cherish, and in doing so Felix will live on.
You are doing what is best for Felix. Sometimes that is hard to do. But as time goes on, you will know that you did the right thing.
I don’t know you or Felix personally, but I’ll say a prayer for him regardless. Also, if it helps, you may want to take a look at petloss.com , it is a website I found two years ago when my rabbit of 6 1/2 years, Mulder, passed away. It is a very nice support site for people who’ve lost a beloved pet. There is a poem there called the Rainbow Bridge that made me feel a bit more at ease with accepting Mulder’s passing, perhaps it will help for you as well. Just a thought.
Again, my condolences to you and your family.
I’m really sorry to hear that. I unfortunately know exactly what you’re going through, and I know how much you’re hurting now. My thoughts are with you and your family.
I just wanted to add my hugs and good thoughts to everyone elses. I, like a kajillion other commenters, have lost feline family members. I had four who ranged in age from 15-17 years old. It’s been almost a year since Toad, the last one, passed away, and it’s nice to remember still the way their fur smelled or the sound of their meows. It’s the little things like those you talked about in your post that are really great to remember. I know I fell in love with Felix just reading about him!
You and all your family (including the four-legged portion of it) are in my thoughts.
I’m so sorry Wil. I know *exactly* what you’re going through, having just gone through it a few weeks ago. You and your family will be in my thoughts. 🙁
***HUGS***
That is all I can offer for you and yours…
Take care, Odile
My sincere condolances. From your descriptions you did all you could and more, that’s cold comfort believe me, but in the days to come it will be something to hold on to; knowing you did all you could, knowing you did more than most folk ever would for your friend. He was as lucky to have you as a companion, as you were lucky to have him in your life. I’m certain he knew how much you and your family loved him.
Hi Wil,
I was where you’re at now not that long ago with my beloved I-Chaya, and was there two years before that as well with Charcoal. Those two days for me were the most overwhelming, gut-wrenching days in memory. You and the Wheaton clan all have support from this here Monkey.
You did good, if I may say so. Felix lucked out when he picked your garage over any other place to camp out.
I’m so sorry for you and your family. My family has been adopted by quite a few strays over the years, and I also know how painful it is to lose such a cherished friend. Words are never adequate at times likes this, but you have my sincerest condolences.
Oh Wil, I wish there was something I could do or say to ease your family’s pain. I know you are glad of the time you had with him, but it doesn’t make the passing any easier. Take care, and our thoughts are with you.
Tim, Diane, Copper, Ping, Mr. Bojangles & Domino
I’m very sorry, Wil. I have been through this with two of my own cats. It is really hard. You gave him a lot of love and a good home. He wouldn’t have had that if you all hadn’t found him and taken him in. You vastly improved his quality of life. The way you describe him reminds me so much of my own old favorite cat Smokey. I was tearing up as I read, feeling bad for you and thinking of that cat who has been gone now for something like 16 or 17 years. It’s amazing, what animals do for us. You’ll have that with Felix — all those memories.
Hi Will,
I have been reading you blog for quite awhile now. I had to register so how I could let you know how much I feel for you. I have my own little family in my house also, two dogs and a cat. All hard luck stories that I rescued. They are everying to me, as I am sure your gang is to you. I believe everything happens for a reason. Just as I believe my gang found me, I know your Felix found you, and he picked you and Anne because he knew you would be the ones to help him do what he needed to do when it counted. He is somewhere in heaven purring contendedly, snuggled in a cloud, looking down on you and your family, watching over you, Anne and the kids.
Much love,
Tim
I’m truly sorry for your loss. It is such a difficult decision to make, even when they do let you know that it is time. Love and support to you and your family.
i am so sorry. i’m sure felix will be very happy. i also know that probably doesn’t make you feel better. the post was very touching. i was in tears by the end. it is obvious how much you love him and i’m sure he knows it.
many thoughts&hugs for you all. it’s always hard. always. i love my fur so much; loved the ones that have already passed on so much too. but i can’t imagine sparing myself their loss given the alternative of never having known them at all.
how lucky that felix the bear deemed you all worthy for his place to be. how lucky you got to meet him, earn his trust, enjoy his companionship and his bestowed ‘chosen’ moments. how lucky for him to have found you in return – a loving home, plenty of willing caretakers, and those understanding and thoughtful enough to take the best care of him, in all circumstances.
rumor sends furry hugs; mutton sends dog kisses.
Wil
You took in a stray being with no place to live and gave him a warm and loving home for many years. And you loved him enough not to force him to stay alive when he was finished in this world.
Your Bear will always be with you and Anne because you loved him that much.
I’ve been where you are twice now in my life. It hurts like hell for a long time. But it gets better. Take care and give your other companions that much more love.
Words to comfort escape me completely; however the sorrow I feel for you and yours is overwhelming.
From experience, I can tell you that tomorrow morning will be one of the hardest in your life. I sat in the exam room and cried for 20 minutes when I had to put my Punkins down a few years ago.
When I was finally able to come out, the people in the waiting room gave me a big hug. It was very
Sometimes our furry friends are only here for a short time, to make our lives better. And sometimes it seems like they have to go just when we need them the most.
But I know Felix will live on in your heart and great stories here and has gone to that Great Litterbox in the Sky (to quote my cat-fancying aunt who has had to out down her share of “kids”).
I have held Todd, my first cat which I “raised” from an orphaned kitten from the time I was 6 until I was 18, when he was dying of cancer.
And Malkyn, who I loved like my own, who recently passed from a very unexpected liver and kidney failure.
We love you, you know you have our support. We love your cats and love you for loving your cats.
Take care and be strong, Wil.
Been there, know the pain. You and your family, two- and four-legged, have my thoughts and sympathy.
nothing more to say, except:
::hugs::
Wil,
By taking in Felix, you showed him great love and affection, and in return you were given the opportunity to serve a very loving pet and friend. I know that you understand that you are doing this out of love… but take the time to remember the reasons you love him.
Everyday, I regret not taking my old dog, Max, to the vet, knowing that he was suffering. I refused to have The Talk, even with myself. I wish that I had been more loving than that.
Be well, be strong. Take the time to remember
Flower, also once a stray, and I both send our thoughts your way, Wil.
Just one more voice in the hundres of others, but i know how it is to make that decision, and its one that, even with a pet, no one shoudl have to make. It is, i would say, the right one, though. And i’ll be sending mental mojo tomorrow.
Wil, I’m so sorry for your loss. I know how hard it is to lose a pet. You’ve made a tough decision, but it was the right one.
My condolences, man. I’ve been going through a similar time with my dog lately, he’s been sick but is pulling out of it. My prayers go out to you, the family, and Felix.
I know you’re going to get a thousand emails and comments to this effect, but, I understand how you feel. Earlier this month, my dog, Juliet, was diagnosed with anemia. The night before was one of the hardest nights my family has ever been through.
We came home from dinner and the dog was lying in the hallway. She wouldn’t move, and just kept looking at us all sad. We coaxed at her, trying to get her to move, because we had treats for her. She whined and couldn’t move. We assumed she needed help, so my dad placed a hand under her sternum and tried to lift her up- she’s had a series of leg problems over the past two years, from a minor knee sprain to ripping all the ligaments in one hip, so we assumed her legs were just hurting and she needed some help. When my dad pushed up, she yelped louder then I had ever heard before, even when she screwed up her hip. Again, assuming it was her legs, we tried to get her to take a little chunk of buffered asprin. She refused, which was so strange, because she’ll normally take it in an instant if she’s in pain. My dad put it in the shell of a mostly gone chocolate covered cherry and she still refused. We assumed she’d be there for a while, so we brough over her water bowl. She drank almost all of it and was still thirsty. I looked her over some more and we talked; it became apparent that she wasn’t lying on the floor because she wanted to, but because she had collapsed. My dad gave her a hand and got her moved onto her side, which seemed to hurt her less. My mom went to bed, and my dad went to sleep in the living room. The dog was right outside my door, and I’m used to spending long nights up, so I kept the door open and just watched her all night, asking her what she wanted when she cried. She didn’t sleep all night and neither did I. I went in the hallway and laid down with her quite a few times, with all the lights on, whispering to her to just sleep and everything would be okay in the morning, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t move. Around 4am, she finally ate. Around six, she started crying again, asking for something, so I got my dad and brought him in the hallway. We talked to her, asking her what she wanted, and she strained to get up. By this time, my mom was up too, so we all tried to talk the dog into getting up without help, and she did. She walked, slowly and wobbly, to the door. She was taken to the vet’s office as soon as it opened, and we were told that with some extra TLC and daily multi-vitamins, she’d be fine. We’re happy she’s not as bad as she was that night, but it’s still a daily struggle. Sometimes she’ll just slump onto the floor and look sad. Most days it’s a fight to get her to take her vitamin, but she’s still with us, and she still wants to be.
I’m so sorry. I hope you and your family can always remember Felix, and the great things he brought to your household.
You guys have done right by Felix, every day you’ve had with him. I’m sorry for how this hurts. You’re in my thoughts.
Thank Felix for all of us here. We’re grateful, just his simply having been. He’s a good guy, we’ll miss him.
I’m soooooooooo sorry to hear about Bear Wil! I had to go throught the same thing with 2 of my cats, and doing what your doing is the hardest thing in the world to go through. Quality of life versus quantity…doesn’t make it feel any better. Bear knows that you and Annie and the boys love him, he wouldn’t have stayed around if he didn’t. He knows it’s time, and knows your doing whats best for him. I know as soon as I read your post what was going on, and had to stop several times to wipe my eyes dry. It’ll hurt forever, but the pain does lessen. Just know your doing the right thing for Bear. My thoughts and prayers go out to you all right now.
I’ve been following your blog for some time now, and wanted to register to send my condolences. My family’s feisty tabby died at age 18 due to kidney failure. We did everything we could for Frodo, including a sad kitty IV, but her body just couldn’t keep up with her spirit. She was my big sister, in the family three years before me. Remember the Bear’s strength, love, and stumpin around. My heart goes out to you and your family.
Dear Wil,
As I read your latest entry about poor Felix, my heart ached. My younger sister lost two pets, a cat and a dog, within a few days of each other. Then, just over a year after that, her firstborn son died of leukemia. So I think I have some small idea of how you, Anne, and the kids must feel right now–my family and I have been there, too.
The only advice I can offer is the same advice given by the late author, veterinarian, and cat lover James Herriott, who said that the only antidote to losing one pet is to get another one. Mind you, Wil, that doesn’t render Felix’s passing meaningless. On the contrary, in fact–it’s a very special compliment–a tribute, if you will, to his memory. It means that you loved him so much that you now want to share that love with another cat. I honestly don’t think that Felix would mind; in fact, I can’t help thinking he’d WANT you to get another cat–not to replace him, but, as it were, to succeed him, to continue giving you and your family that special affection that only cats can give their humans.
I realize, of course, that you won’t feel up to it right away, especially given Sketch’s still-fragile state of health (which I sincerely hope will continue to improve!). Sooner or later, though, a time will come when you and yours will know it’s time to get another cat. Who knows but that another cat may come into your lives in much the same way that Felix did? In any event, my thoughts and prayers will be with you all during this sad time. Take care, my friend, and God bless!
Sincerely,
Tom Nichol
*hugs* to your whole family. Know that you are in the thoughts of your readers.
You are right about cats letting you know when they are ready to go. My children and I were living with my parents when Sylvester, our 20-something old cat, died. For several months before his death, he had spent most of his time in my parent’s bedroom and bathroom.
Then one morning, I found him in the guest bathroom. According to my parents, he slowly visited the whole house this morning and let the kids pet him. Then he went back to their bathroom, stretched himself out and died.
You’re doing the right thing. It might not make things feel better, but you are.
Wil (and Anne),
All I can do is add my sympathy (“co-feeling”, a la Kundera) to the supportive chorus. I am so sorry to hear that Felix’s time has come, and for what you are going through. My little Panda is just whining and wondering why I’m not playing fetch with her. I know your house is full of pets to comfort you, but your memories of “The Bear” will always be special. Peace be with the little guy.
— Christina
Wil,
This is my first comment to your blog. I have a cat that sounds exactly like “the bear.” He is one of my best friends and just an extraordinary cat in every way: smart, friendly, and sweet.
When I read your post I could feel your pain. I also thought about what it will be like when my cat passes away, which is something that I can hardly stand to think about.
What I’m getting at is you your post made me cry, the first time I have ever cried after reading a weblog and one of the few times I have cried since becoming an adult.
You are a good man and Felix is a good cat. You’ll both be in my thoughts tonight.
Wil,
I’ve never cried over someone’s blog entry until now. As a fellow cat owner, who sees her three as her children, your entry has just touched me profoundly. As soon as I get home, I’m going to go run and give a big hug and kiss to Sishi, Macky, and Waldo.
I’m sending you all kinds of mojo, love, strength – everything – right now for you, Anne, the boys, and of course, Felix.
So sorry, Wil.
Wil,
Really sorry to hear about Felix. I’ve got one of those sick kitties too and we’ve lost one in the past. It sucks.
My thoughts to you and the family.
Take Care…
oh wil, i’m so sorry.
just think, if it was possible, all couple hundred of us would give you a giant group “bear” hug. pun intended.
Dragoness and Socks are there waiting for Felix to help him find all the special places to sleep and play.
About a month ago, my dog (of 11 years) was hit by a car, and had to be put to sleep because of four fractures to her pelvic bone and severe nerve damage. It was incredibly hard for me, so as I was reading this, I started crying again. At least Felix isn’t in too much pain. I could see the pain in Sandy’s eyes as I sat with her in the vet’s office.
I’ve noticed that my cat, who is normally only friendly when she’s hungry or wants outside, has become much more loving and friendly since the passing of my dog. That has helped me tremendously, hopefully the love of your other cats will help you through this pain.
I’m so sorry about your cat, who sounds as sweet as the one that I used to love. But I’m glad that Felix was loved by people who would give them everything he needed and listened to him when he gave them all he had.
Damn. I had such hopes that he’d bounce back and surprise the whole world.
I am really sorry you’re having to go through this, you and your family. Felix picked you to be his staff for a reason, you know…lesser people would have given up on him at that first meow.
4 years ago we, no, I had to decide to put my cat to sleep. Very similar situation, total kidney failure. Our choices were dialysis or the needle. She was miserable and told me right then and there. I was a wreck. I made the call, but couldn’t see to drive (sobbing and crying), so my Mom drove her to the vet.
4 years ago, and I still occassionally wonder why she hasn’t rushed to the bottom of the stairs when I get home from work.
I’m sure I’m saying nothng new, but, dammit Wil, you’re post brought all this back and I’m crying again. Can’t read the other posts to see how redundant my words are.
In the end, it doesn’t matter how much it hurts, you have to. For them. they can’t make the decision themselves. If Felix sees a scrawny lil maine coon named Sequel up there, have him tell her I miss her.
Wil,
You and Anne have been the best parents that a cat could have. Felix was so lucky to find you both. I know a lot of people who would give their life for their pets and do almost anything for them, but I have to say, you top them all! The love you have for Felix and all your cats ans dogs is wonderful.
What you need to remind yourself of is that you and Anne did everything possible to help Felix. I promise you, if Felix could talk human language,he would tell you both how much he has appreciated your love. I know how hard it tis to let your pets go. I have been there and almost did not think I could come back to reality. Then one day I said the same thing a lot of people have said. They will let you know when it is time to go. Felix will always be in your heart.
It wasn’t just something that happened when Felix showed up at your house that day, it happened for a reason. Felix knew that he found “home”. Home is where the heart is and you and Anne seem to have the biggest hearts around! Words cannot say how sorry I am for you both! In times like these words sometimes don’t cut it. I will say that you all are in my prayers and If I could do more I would in a heartbeat! You just know that you have a friend on the other side of that computer.