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 and family.
I sorry to hear about Felix. I have a cat and know exactly what it’s like to be on the rotation. My cat loves to lay under my bent legs when I go to bed.
Pets are a big part of our families and life would be a lot poorer without them – even when they bring us pain.
My sympathy goes out to you and your family.
Our family of seven (2 adults, 1 child, 4 cats) offers our sympathies to your family.
It’s weird that I picked this day, of all days, to start reading your blog.
I’m so sorry – losing someone you love, animal or human, is the worst thing there is, and having to make that huge decision, even when it’s the only real choice, is shattering.
Here in the material world, every story has a sad ending. That’s why it’s so important to enjoy the ride.
“Life is life – whether in a cat, or dog or man. There is no difference there between a cat or a man. The idea of difference is a human conception for man’s own advantage.” ~Sri Aurobindo
I’ll chant an extra round of the maha mantra and hopefully send a little positive energy your way.
I’m so sorry about your Felix, and I wish you and your family all the best. Love and best wishes.
Very sorry to hear it, Wil. It’s always rough to do what you have to do in such circumstances, and that’s the responsibility of taking on pets. My family lost a beloved dog just a couple of months ago, my girlfriend had to put her ‘old geezer’ dog to sleep six or eight months ago, and I just received word that a friend back in Ohio had to have her dog companion of 16 years put to sleep.
The worst was losing three cats that were 10-15 years old over the course of a week, two to the violence of a pit bull getting lose in the neighborhood, my brother was outside and saved the third cat. Unfortunately the cat was diagnosed with kitty AIDS and would not have tolerated being an indoor cat for his remaining days and he did not come home from the vet. Broke my heart.
But things improve, and my improvement this weekend was asking my girlfriend to marry me. I did it at the Arizona Renaissance Festival, on bended knee, and both of us in costume. It was fun! We also bought a pair of puzzle rings for our wedding rings, I’d bought a pair a year ago as sort of pre-engagement rings. Naturally I blogged about it. 🙂 http://www.livejournal.com/users/thewayne/27805.html
So life does go on, and good things will happen again, and odds are that you’ll find yourself adopted by a charismatic feline sooner than you think.
Wil,
I am so sorry. I know this is hard on your whole family. You make a tough decision but it was the right one. Felix knows how much his people loved him and you brought each other a great deal of happiness. He won’t have to suffer anymore in a sick body that couldn’t contain his lively active spirit. I will keep you and your family in my thoughts as you spend the next weeks adjusting and accepting your loss.
Sandra
A beautifully written piece on a very sad occasion. You and your family will never forget the unique presence that was Felix. Despite your present heartbreak, aren’t you glad you all found each other? Peace, Felix.
Oh Wil, I’m so sorry. I can no longer have cats, due to allergy (which my husband loves, the bastard), but I know how special they are. We now have dogs, and my little bitches are simply the furry sisters to the naked baby. It’s hard, but your family will come together, and all will be well.
Goodbye, Felix. Please say hello to Pete and Leo and Hissy and Snowball and Junior and Cat for me, ‘k?
I’m going to go hug my babies, now.
Sorry to hear that, Wil. 🙁 I wish you and your family all the best. Just hang in there.
Lots of love to you, Felix.
I am so very sorry, Wil.
Tell Felix to say “Hi” to Mama Cat, Rowan and Nicky. I’ll tell my dogs who have passed to give him a nice honor guard (ya hear that Jenny, Becky, Kate, Murfey, Maggie and Pinhead?)
Hang with it Wil.
Giant condolences to you and your family (including your animals). Losing a loved one is a hell of a thing, isn’t it? There are just no words.
Lonely animals seem to have an ability to seek out the best, exactly right type of people to latch on to. I think Felix knew you guys would take care of him the moment he chose to show up at your house. He Chose You to spend the rest of his life with, and for that you guys can be so proud.
Elyssa
My heart goes out to all of you.
Once again you have bought back a mixture of memories for me, accompanied with good deal of tears.
Hold each other tight.
I’m so sorry to hear that Felix has decided to go. It’s never easy to deal with that. Our Siouxsie had kidney disease 10 years ago, and I’ve only recently been able to have another cat in the house. He showed up at your house for a reason – he knew that you were a good family, and that’s what he wanted.
All the best to all of you – may your hearts heal quickly.
Wil, there are no magic words, no trite quotes, no amount of saying “you’re doing the right thing” that can ease the hurting you’re feeling right now. I’ve been in your situation and tried like you: The food, injections, everything.
It’s time.
I’m crying for you too, man. A big linebacker-esque guy sitting at his desk at work, crying for a poor sick kitty thousands of miles away sounds silly, but I’m doing it anyway.
Strength to you.
It
As soon as I started reading this entry I was saying “No, no, no, no, no!” I knew how this one was going to end. It fucking sucks going through this Wil. Although you are doing the right thing, it still totally sucks having to do it. I’ve been there, the last time was about 7 years ago and I still think about the fuzzy, skinny lil shit, a lot.
I feel for ya man,
Sharfa
Now I need to go clean up my tear stained snot laden face before the boss gets in.
Wil and family,
My deepest condolences. Take care of yourselves. I don’t have any stories to help inspire, or any similar experiences that I wish I could share to possibly make the hurt a little easier to bear, but all I can offer you are hugs and warm thoughts from far away. All the best.
i’m so sorry wil. be strong, you’ve got a loving family and 50,000 friends.
Wil & Anne & Family –
I’m so very sorry. Having been there with two of my cats, I know there’s not much to be said that will make a difference right now. I hope that you can feel all of the good thoughts we’re all thinking for you, and for Felix.
Klutz from Michigan
I knew when I saw the title what was coming. And it still made me cry.
I’ve got several friends up there in kitty-heaven who will certainly be waiting to play (or in my little Bug’s case, probably pick a fight) with Felix.
I’m really not a cat person at all…but your story really turned on the waterworks this morning. Damn you Wil Wheaton! j/k…I am sorry for your loss, but I’m sure Felix will be up kickin’ some ass in Kat Heaven soon enough ;
Wil,
Last night my roommate came out of her room, and she was crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said ‘The Bear is getting put to sleep’…I’m so sorry Wil. Losing a pet is heartwrenching and terrible. Thank you for being comfortable enough with your e-family to share your pain…
I can’t really add to what others have said. you’ve made the right decision, a decision i don’t know if i could make. my dog is getting older, and i’ll never be prepared for that day, when I have to let him go. so I know how incredibly brave you are. Our thoughts are with you and anne and the rest of the wheaton clan.
-K
I’m so sorry, Wil. My co-workers are probably wondering what the heck happened over in my cube. I know nothing will make letting go any easier, but Felix the Bear most certainly had a happy and wonderful life
Awwww, I’m so sorry. Hugs and much love to you and your family. I can’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound smarmy or presumptuous, so I just wanted to send love and condolences your way. And a little mojo too, for the healing you’ll be doing.
I’m so sorry to hear this news. Thank you for telling us Felix’s story, and about the very hard decision you and your family made. Your vet was wise, and you listened to Felix…it doesn’t make it any easier, for sure, but I hope it helps you to know you all did the right thing, and you love him. And he loves you. I’ll be thinking of you Wheatons today.
All my best,
Caro, Frodo & Gomez
So sad and sorry to read this. Our thoughts are with you and your family today.
Lacey, Loki, and Pumpkin
and their human, Marianne
goddammit, wil… i’ve been reading your blog for years now, and this really hurts. i *hate* crying while reading posts! my partner and i have 2 cats who are now 14 and 12, respectively, and lately i’ve been feeling the need to come to terms with the reality that they will not be around forever. they are healthy and happy, but i know it won’t last forever. your recent posts about felix and sketch were reminders that i can’t ignore it, either. i grieve for you and your family. i don’t know if you will read this (over 200 posts ahead of me!), but if it’s any comfort, you did all the right things, from a buddhist perspective: you held the utmost respect and compassion for felix during his life, and you did not hold on to him just because it was too painful for you to let him go when he was ready. i’m guessing his next life will be a good one. i will offer incense for you and felix today.
I’m so sorry to hear about you and Anne’s loss, and have nothing but respect for the hard choice you both had to make. Good thoughts for you all!
Coming to such a conclusion is NEVER easy and I’m not sure whether it is easier to see it coming and prepare for it or for it to happen spontaneously but reading your entry brought me to tears.
It’s been awhile since i’ve had a good cry – since my cat, Tigger, passed away over a year ago. Felix ‘the bear’ was a very lucky kitty to have such wonderful people who all love him as much as you and your family do.
It’s never easy to have happen to a feline family member and I want to wish your family well as you go through this tough time.
Much love.
Just sending a giant hug and massive alpha waves of support your way, Wil. Thank you for wonderful proof of the power of love and the strength of compassion. Like others who’ve commented here, after reading your post I went around to our menagerie: four cats, a dog and tortoise, and gave them all huge teary hugs. Yes, you can hug a tortoise
I’m so, SO sorry, Wil! I’ve been in your shoes so I know how devastating it is. Felix is scampering in that big cat pasture in the sky but you’ve got all the memories that won’t ever go away and will always be a part of your life. Felix and my Runt are probably screeching at each this very moment!
Take care, bud!
I’m so, SO sorry, Wil! I’ve been in your shoes so I know how devastating it is. Felix is scampering in that big cat pasture in the sky but you’ve got all the memories that won’t ever go away and will always be a part of your life. Felix and my Runt are probably screeching at each this very moment!
Take care, bud!
I’m so, SO sorry, Wil! I’ve been in your shoes so I know how devastating it is. Felix is scampering in that big cat pasture in the sky but you’ve got all the memories that won’t ever go away and will always be a part of your life. Felix and my Runt are probably screeching at each this very moment!
Take care, bud!
Man, Wil, that’s rough. I know exactly how you feel. One of our cats went through 3 seperate surgeries about 5 years ago to excise malignant lumps in her chest. We thought she was going to die each time, and each time she pulled through. But after the last surgery, she just didn’t go back to her normal self, and she died a week later from complications (congestion, kidney failure, heart failure).
Mystic was part of my wife’s life for something like 12 years, and part of mine for 2 of those. By the time I knew her, she was pretty cranky, especially towards men. (Apparently, one of my wife’s VERY ex-boyfriends tormented her by putting her into the toilet bowl while my wife was out of the house, closing the lid, and flushing. I’ll never understand some people.) But via love (and extensive bribery) I had just about convinced her that I was “all right”. When she was dying, she crawled into my lap (something she seldom did on her own) at the Vet’s office and looked up at me, as if to say “I have to leave, so it’s up to you to take care of her now. I trust you.” Then she curled up in my lap and went to sleep. She died the next morning.
From the amount of comments, you are obviously not alone in this situation. We all feel for what you and Anne have gone through.
I remember the day Zooey came into our den and sat on the arm of the sofa and put her paw on my shoulder. She weighed less than 5 lbs and was all skin and bones with a bit of fur. She hadn’t been sick, she was just old. She knew she was ready, but I certainly wasn’t.
My husband and I made the decision to go to the vet that morning; waiting would only prolong our agony.
Zooey (and her sister Franny) had been my cats before meeting my husband. But it was Dan that stayed with her while the vet gave her the injection. I was outside the room looking in, sobbing, as was Dan.
It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, but Zooey was ready and I couldn’t make her want to live if she was done. I miss her to this day (it’s been over 5 years) but I know we made the right decision. She’s at peace and she had been a wonderful friend to me for over 15 years.
He sounds like a really special cat. You have been priveledged to be his people. He couldn’t have picked nicer or more caring staff to spend the end of his life with. You are lucky to have known him, and he is lucky to have had you.
Letting go is always the hardest. You’ve done well by your cats; but you know you’ve made the best choice for his care at this point.
Major Mojo from my fat cat Buster, fighting kidney failure himself, hopefully for at least 10 more years!
God Wil, I’m so sorry. I’ve done this 3 times since I was an adult and it doesn’t really get any easier to do.
Gather the family, tell your most favorite Felix stories, and love the rest of your animals even more. They will be looking for Felix too, you’ll have to tell them, maybe more than once that he’s gone, why he’s gone, etc.
Best wishes.
Dear Wil:
My best to you and your family. It’s so hard when you have to make this decision for the animals you have brought into your home. As a responsible owner, you try to make the right decisions for care and feeding. This, too, is the right decision for you to make. Our small ones look to us to care for them. And as hard as it is to make the decision at the end of a life, it is the right decision. My thoughts and tears I share with you.
I lost my cat Molly after only five years just three weeks ago. I felt her heart stop beathing beneath my hand and watched her eyes glaze over. She had started “screaming” in the middle of the night. I came into the room and she was bouncing all over the place. Going nuts. Finally she flopped over and I stayed with her until she died. I’d had her since she was a kitten and I was living alone – right after college. About a year ago she started having trouble breathing. And she’d go through these stages where she wasn’t able to sleep and she’d just lie there and force her body to breathe. We’d spoon-feed her the wet stuff (her favorite) until she got better. She hadn’t had an incident in about six months so we thought she’d recovered. Not so much.
Reading your post made my eyes tear up. It brought back memories of me crying on the kitchen floor and then back in my bed in my wife’s arms. Bill Clinton was famous for saying “I feel your pain,” but rest assured that I *do* feel your pain and your sadness. I’m imagining Felix and Molly and millions of other cats prancing around in that place where cats go when they die. But they live on in spirit – their identity alive forever. Playful, ruinning.
I lost my boo a little over a month ago. I never realized how lucky I was to have her for 17 years of my life. She had been through everything with me… school, college, boyfriends, jobs. She was always my big fat cat.
Then about 6 months ago she just started wasting away. I ignored it. Partially for my own selfishness. I didn’t want to admit there was something wrong with her. When she dropped from 17 pounds to what looked like 9 or 10, i finally broke down and brought her to the vet.
She wasn’t there 3 hours before the doc called and said she was severely diabetic. He told me I would have to give her insulin shots twice a day and she should be okay. I debated it for the rest of the day. Would she really be okay? Does she want to be okay? Is she ready to just let go? Can I let her go?
I decided to give the treatment 30 days to see if I noticed any improvement. I learned how to give her shots, something I never thought I could’ve done. It’s amazing what you learn you can do when you have a little tiny life in your hands. But she never did get better and I had to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I had to let her go. And she was ready.
Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my Mauser.
I am so sorry for your loss, Wil, and I thank you for allowing me to shed a few tears for all of our loved ones this morning. And know that Felix is up there hanging out and chasing squirrels in Kitty heaven.
A toast! to Bear, who loved as he lived, with every fibre of his being!!
To Wil and Family, my deepest sympathies. . It was in that garage that Felix had chosen to share his life with you and your family.
best wishes
mels
Wil,
I’m so sorry for the loss of your cat. It’s always hard to lose a pet that’s dear to our hearts, but thank you for sharing it so elegantly.
Miles
This Monkey’s Gone To Heaven.
Dude, I’m not ashamed to admit that I just balled my eyes out.
My deepest and most sincere condolences(sp?).
Wil,
I’ve been following The Bear’s saga with tears in my eyes too. I lost my own sweetheart, Ben, two and a half years ago after his two year long battle with kidney failure. I had to let him go to the Rainbow Bridge a week after my son was born.
He let me know he was ready to go and he also let me know he was happy with time he’d had here.
Ben will be waiting for Felix, and I’m sure they’ll have a grand time waiting for us to join them someday.
Strength to you and your family.
Melissa
Wil I feel for you and your loss. Take comfort that his pain will stop, and he will only have the memories of you and your family to accompany him on this Great Path that you need to send him on, Wil my friend, it is his time. Remember, all roads eventually lead to the Great Path.
MattinJapan
Oh, Wil…
I am so sorry that it has come to this. We knew the day would come, but we always hope it would be in the far distant future. You and your family are very much with us today, as always.
I know from experence that this is not an easy thing to do. However, it is the right thing to do for Bear. You are a good man, baby. Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. You are doing what is best for your boy.
I’ve already hugged Precious for you and will be thinking about y’all and sending you the best.
Remember that Bear will be waiting on the Rainbow Bridge for you, sweetie.
Wil,
Saying goodbye to a pet is always hard – I can’t imagine what I’d be like if I lost one of the Mascots.
You and your wife are awesome people for taking in yet another cat, giving him the kind of life he deserved, and making sure that he didn’t end life in tremendous amounts of pain.
I’ve seen four pets go in my lifetime. It sucks hardcore, every time. But I’m sure you’re strong enough to get through it.
Many of us out here have gone through the pain of saying goodbye to a pet, as I’m seeing from all the stories above. I won’t bother spending the time sharing mine as well.
But it does get better with time, and I’m sure that as much as it hurts, you know you’re doing the right thing for Felix. Treasure the memories, always.