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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Just adding to all of the sympathy for you and your family. I’m so sorry you are having to go through this. You have all of our love and support.
damn you for making me cry, wil wheaton.
(sincere condolences, too. letting go is soo-o-o hard)
He chose you and you acccepted him into your life. He loved you and you loved him and both of you made each other happy.
Well lived.
I hope you hold him close and whisper of love and happy times. You are preventing suffering for him, and creating suffereing for you. What better definition of love is there?
My sympathies to you and yours.
I am sure you will meet again. Such love cannot, in the end, be wasted.
I admire the balance in your decision. You did not cast The Bear’s life away carelessly, but neither did you hang on at the expense of his pain. You did good. You did right.
I am sure there are no words for how you are feeling right now–at least none that could soothe that ache. Ride the ache; its real. The only way out is through.
Mine is just another in the chorus of already over 350 voices wishing you well in this time, but it is even *one* more. That’s good mojo. You guys and your Felix are in our hearts.
hey wil,
i’m sorry about The Bear. i had to put down my cat, Tasha, when i was 16. god, that hurt. but it was the right thing to do. just existing isn’t living, and she wasn’t doing well. it still hurts to think about it, but she knew she was loved, and that was the most important thing. it’s the most important thing with The Bear, too. remember that. he knows.
peace, amigo.
james.
So sorry to hear about Felix, Wil. Always such a tough thing to go through in life. But, as you know, you can’t have one without the other. For lotsa important things.
Hang in there. Remember the good stuff. That’s how loved ones you’ve lost, live on.
Just one of a thousand voices to say, “I feel for your loss”. Take care, Wil. Felix will be missed by all who knew him, and all who read about him, thanks to you. Cheers.
My comment is probably going to get lost among the other comments, but I want to write this. Wil, I’m so sorry about this. I know how terrible it is to lose a pet. It’s especially hard if you have to put them to sleep. I wish you and your family the best. Bear was very lucky to have such a great mommy and daddy.
::hugs:: My heart goes out to you and your family. Thank you for sharing this. You are all in my thoughts.
M.
Oh Wil. I’m so sorry. What can I say that everyone else hasn’t? Reading this brought tears to my eyes. I know how much you wanted poor little Felix to get better. I went through it myself not too long ago. I will definitely be thinking of you tomorrow. Its going to be a hard day for you and your family. You’re all in my prayers. *huge hugs*
Dear Family of Felix,
Have you ever thought about the people who gave you a name? Maybe it’s just the late hour — or my still teary, snotty face… but this concept strikes me as very profound at the moment.
How appropriate that the lovely Anne selected “Felix” that day at the vet’s office. Some people know that the name can mean “happy,” but, in Latin, it also means “lucky,” or “fortunate.”
To be able to experience a loving life at the House of Wheaton would a very lucky kitty make. Most cats would give their right paw to be able to live out a few of their nine lives in such an ideal setting, and around such ideal creatures.
Ironic that such difficult times are inspired by such profound luck on all sides.
Wil closed his entry by saying that he would remember, among other things, how Felix would come tell him and Anne that he wanted to go out, even if it was in the middle of the night. I think that it was because of early-AM events like those that Felix knew that he could take comfort in you and trust you in the end to listen to his final wish to help him make his most recent exit.
What a *lucky* cat Felix is to be able to live forever in essence and memory through the very *fortunate* writing abilities of a loving family member.
Adam
Wil, thanks for your openess about your feelings and your wisdom to make the right decision although it’s not the easiest. My heart is with you and your family as you grieve.
dgt
Wil,
No words can make what you are feeling any better. My thoughts go out to You, Anne, and the Boys
Hey Wil, Haven’t been here for a while. Wouldn’t you know it, the day that I decide to visit you’ve got a story up that makes me cry my eyes out.
Wish I could say something to make you and your family feel better but I know that losing someone (even a pet) can’t be smoothed over by a few well meant words.
Wil,
having children I never understood how one could become so attached to a cat. I was always against adopting one. Well we finally adopted a kitten and to be honest I was the first one to run and get food, bowls etc. I’ve become so attached to Kirby that I can’t imagine him not being a member of the family. He such a rascal.
everyone simply adores him. So there’s only one thing I can say, I am sorry for your loss. I know how you feel.
Hey Wil this is the first time I have commented. I just wanted to say that you made the right decision with Felix. Sorry for your loss.
hey wil,
i’m so sorry to hear about your loss. pets are like family, just as precious, and its inevitable that you outlive them, but its tough and it hurts..
my parents used to have 2 german shepards, and the last one died about 13 years ago.. i was 10 and it was the first time i saw my dad cry. especially after you let them sleep-in, you come back home, and everything is still the same. the kittylitter thing is still there, some of their favourite toys are still in the livingroom.. and you expect to just walk in but it just doesnt.. I already get choked up just by thinking about it..
So my condoleances for your loss.. But luckily you have lots of happy memories so hold on to that 🙂 It’ll make you smile and cry at the same time, but atleast you will smile 🙂
take care and my support to you and your family!
Will, I’m so sorry that this is happening to you. I lost my cat two months ago. Yesterday I picked up a new kitty from the animal shelter. It is not the same I know.
I hope you and your family are able to mourn your loss and remember what was good.
So sorry to hear about your loss, Wil. I know what a huge part animals can be of our lives.
Peace and blessings.
Charlie the cat and I are sorry to hear about Felix, we know how much everyone in the family loved him. I’m going to do a banner of him so I can put it in my livejournal. I hope you don’t mind. He was such a fighter and should be remembered with love. He was some character and I just wanted to let you know that was you did was not selfish or anything.It was out of pure love and charlie the cat and I think that Felix was the luckiest cat to come to your house and he was lucky to have such great people in his life. All our love,
Morgan and Charlie The Cat
Wil,
Out of all the entries you’ve posted this is the one that has made me cry. Maybe it’s the way you’ve written about it; maybe it’s because I’ve been through this more than once but now I have to explain to my 6 year old and 3.5 year old why Mommy’s crying at the computer. My thoughts are with you and your family.
We all understand where you are now, Wil. I wish we never had to go there. However, you did the most important thing for Felix, you reacted to his every need with love, and thus did the right thing for him. I had a very similar situation with my dog. He was this pathetic little ball of white fluff, hiding under the doghouse at the Humane Society foster home. I pulled him out and he barely looked at me. He was shaking so badly I could hardly hang on to him. I was ten, and wanted a puppy so badly, I didn’t mind that this one was terrified of me and was a bit dirty. He was my dog, from the instant I touched him. In the car on the way home, he peed on my shirt front. We took him home and named him Michael Charles Scruffington the third, Scruffy for short. The next day, we decided to give him a bath, ’cause hiding under the doghouse, he had picked up some fleas, along with the dirt. . .While he was in the bathtub, he started bleeding from his anus. . .We took him to the vet, who said it was Parvovirus. He wasn’t likely to live another 30 days. I cried unconsolably. Well, he lived that next 30 days. . .and for ten years thereafter. In that time, he was the sweetest dog ever, with personality to spare. When he got excited (when we came home from school, riled him up, or when he knew we were going to visit Grandma), he would sneeze along with wagging his entire body(just wagging the tail was apparently not enough to convey his joy). He also proved himself to be the most accident-prone animal known to man (with the most accident-prone owner). For awhile there, I was clumsily averaging a broken bone a year. Scruff somehow managed to match me, injury for injury. When I broke my foot, my brother tripped over the dog in the hall and broke the ball off his hip joint. . a year later when I broke my wrist and elbow, Scruff got hit by a car and broke two ribs. Suffice to say, that by the age of ten, he was a walking disaster. He had residual heart, lung, and kidney damage from the Parvo, he walked on three legs, and when he had wheezing spells from his emphysema, it seemed to hurt his chest (probably the old broken ribs). My sophomore year in college, it was looking like someone was going to have to start in with “the Talk.” Scruff took that responsibility away, however. One spring day, he decided he didn’t want to go in the house while my brother and mom were going to school. This wasn’t too out of character for him, he often liked to spend sunny days outside, and we lived in a rural enough area that he could safely spend the day out and around, so my family chose to let him stay outside. When my brother got home, he found Scruff stretched out in the sun on the back porch. He had died peacefully in the sun. Sadly, it was only a few days before I was supposed to come home for Spring Break. . .My mom buried him in the back yard under the dogwood tree. She didn’t tell me that he had died until I came home and she could hug me while she told me. Even then, my first thought was “He lived a bonus 9 years and 11 months. He did well.” After that, came the tears, which still come every time I think of him. He was definately the Dog of My Life. A few months later, I adopted Gus, my big ol’ black Siamese mix, whome I love like my life, even though he is so vocal sometimes I want to smack him. He’s got kidney problems too, but they’re mainly managed by diet. Gus turns 11 in June and he and I are the best of friends. Whenever I have trouble sleeping, Gus comes to snuggle next to me, using his amazingly soft fur, his sweet warmth and purr to help me get to sleep. . .I think maybe Scruff sent him to me ’cause he knew how lonely I was without him. When Scruff died, I couldn’t see having another dog, so I got a cat. When Gus dies, I probably won’t be able to get another cat for a while either.
My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. It is a tough time.
You made me cry.
Good luck and allow the tears to fall. Felix deserves them.
i’m so sorry for your loss Wil, i’ve lost a cat too and it leaves a big hole in your heart that no other cat can replace… 🙁
but remember that he was a very lucky cat to get to live with you guys. a cat couldn’t have it any better. he had a good life and what more can anyone ask? 🙂
*mojo*
wil,
I am so sorry for your loss. I will have your family in my thoughts. I know how hard this was. 🙁
I made a banner in rememberance of FELIX. I hope you don’t mind. I sent it to you, but I had to fix it. It’s yours to use if you want. I already put it on my livejournal to honor him.
Morgan
and Charlie The Cat
I’m so sorry for your loss. Hillary, Taz and Puck are also sad. Misty and HowardCat are with Felix at the Rainbow Bridge, along with many others, I’m sure. It’s hard to let go of your furkids.
Wil thank you for sharing this. Your writing talent is so amazing. You’ve brought me to tears. I can imagine how sad you are right now. Hugs to you and the Wheaton gang.
Dear Wil,
I have been reading for a while, but this is my first chance to say hello. I am sorry that the occasion is such a sad one.
My parents are both veterniarians, and I grew up in a vertiable menagerie; I’m farmiliar with this kind of loss from the point of view of the pet, the owner, adn the health-care provider, too. I’d like to add to he chorus of reassuring voices: you are a kind, gentle, loving owner, and you made a wise decision for Felix. He is as lucky in passing as he was in living, to have you there for him.
That doesn’t make it any easier, though.
There is an old Viking saying, that happiness is when ‘the grandfather dies, the father dies, and the son dies.’ As painful as it is to lose a parent or grandparent, I think it’s even more painfully contrary to our nature to lose a thing we have been responsible for nurturing. In loving our pets, we open ourselves not just to that possiblity, but (in msot cases) to that certainty. Living and loving and nurturing are brave acts. Setting a pet free from pain is a brave act.
I wish you and your family — feline, canine, and human alike — strength, and comfort.
garrity
I’m so sorry Wil.
My thoughts and sympathies are with you and your family during this sad time.
reading you heartfelt words about your pets…it is clear that all of them have been much loved.
I just read your post Wil. OM, I am crying for you and Anne. I so understand your loss, and your decision. I know how much you loved Felix, and how difficult this is. Please know that you and your family are in our thoughts and prayers. *hugs*
As always your writing is beautiful because it is so heart-felt. You are an amazing person. Thank you for sharing yourself with us through your blog. I am increadibly sorry to hear about Felix. Your entry touched my heart and made me cry. I am sending good vibes for you and yours as some very small way to say I care.
We had to put our 14 year old cat Rizzo down when I was 16 under similar circumstances. This cat was a member of our family- I couldn’t remember a time without him, but we knew it had to be done. The day we lost him, Mom and Stepfather took off work, and I stayed home from school, and we went out to dinner to celebrate our memories of this incredibly cool cat. This sweet and poignant post has me thinking (and tearing up a little) of my ‘Bud’, a huge black cat with style to spare.
*hugs and positive vibes* You’ve got quite a support network here, and we’re all thinking of you.
So sorry to hear this news…even though from reading day after day knowing it would happen soon. Just remember you gave the bear a good life and he loved you for it. You will see him again at the Rainbow Bridge…
“All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….
Author unknown…
I’m so sorry about Felix. My kitty Sneakers just passed away a few weeks ago. I miss everything about her, but especially whenever she would choose me to sleep with at night and when I would wake up to her shining face in the morning curled up next to me. Our kitties will live on in our memories. All the great, funny, heartwarming things that they did will stay with us forever.
My deepest sympathies to you and your family
I just wanted to say that you and your family will be in my thoughts. I know how hard that is. Much love and sympathy to you!
Wil, I’m terribly sorry to hear about Felix. I’ve only had my Dexter for a year and a half, but I can’t imagine losing him. Upon reading this entry, I immediately called to him, and when he padded curiously into my room, I scooped him up, kissed him on the head, and cuddled him, grateful for his presence in my life. If it helps, try to take some small comfort in knowing that by sharing this story, so eloquently and passionately, you’ve clearly caused countless grateful, loving moments between kitties and their staff members. Your posse is behind you and thinking of you and your family. -Jess
Wil and Anne,
I’m so sorry to hear about your Bear. It’s amazing how these animals sneak into your life and then your heart. It’s so easy to fall in love with them and when the tough parts come around you really understand how much they gave back to you while you gave care/food/shelter to them. My cat just got diagnosed (after spending the weekend in ICU and almost dying) with chronic renal disease so I’m at the start of your journey with your Bear. I’m really glad we got to know Bear through your website and thanks for sharing this tough day with all of us. I know this is such a difficult decision and my thoughts are with you and your family.
-S
I had a childhood cat whom adopted my family when I was 8 years old. He passed away from a degenerative liver disease when I was in my 5th year of college. 18 years plus life for a cat, and it was still devastating. I went with my roomie from school and had a few drinks in honor of the cat.
It does get easier, as time goes on. Instead of remembering the frailo tired cat of his last few months, I now really only think about the robust young cat the used to chase me around the yard, nipping at my heels. Whenever I think of that cat now, I always smile. It will take some time, but that is how it is. Good luck, and remember, it does get better.
Condolences on your loss wil.
Your post was the most lucid and articulate I have read in a quite a while about the loss of a loved one. The responses to it were authentic and incredibly HUMAN and universally positive and uplifting — a testament to what a good blog CAN be about.
Your story of Felix’s life has allowed him to touch so many more souls than he ever would have imagined. And hey, that’s our mission in life, right? So, in Felix’s case, I think we can say with honesty… Mission Accomplished.
Take care.
Charlie L
Portland, Oregon
(My ex-wife has my dog, but I’m still a lover of all living things.)
Good-bye Felix, I hope you know how many of us cried because you were leaving. I hope your next journey is as happy as living with Wil’s family has been.
Thank you for sharing, Wil. Your blog truly is the best thing on the web to visit. My heart is with you and your family.
Wil,
I’m sorry to hear that things have gone downhill for Felix. I’m glad to hear he won’t be suffering for much longer, if he still is by now. It is never easy to lose a pet. My thoughts are with you and your family.
Harry
Wil –
I am so very sad for you and your family. My little Angel died of Kidney Failure a few years ago – so I recogize the pain that your family is facing.
It is alway so hard to lose a part of the family.
I am sending good thoughts your way.
Wow – I just found your blog for the first time today, and all I can say is I’m sorry. My wife’s dog just died a few weeks ago and I remember the loss that she felt, and can only imagine what it would be like to lose one of our gargantu-kitties (Bela is 16 lbs and Grizzabella is 22!). My thoughts are with you and your family during this trial.
There will be people whose response will be, “Oh, come on – it’s just a cat.” When you or your family hear that, send them to look at the almost 400 comments posted above this (and, I’m sure, the many that will be posted below it). When humans allow themselves to open their hearts to other creatures, a genuine bond is forged, and both parties learn a great deal from it. Any culture, job, or family that expects us to sweep our empathy for others suprressed in order to appear “strong” is demonstrating its weakness and its fear of love. It takes strength to love and to empathise. If ever you see ‘Peaceable Kingdom’ [http://www.tribeofheart.org/pk.htm], you’ll find you’re not alone. And every time you look at the comments here, you’ll know it too.
Wil and Anne,
I’m so sorry. I have lost so many pets over the years and it never ever gets easy. I know you loved The Bear but you did the write thing. It is hard to make such a decision but it is even harder to watch them dieing and in pain. The Bear loves you, he chose to be with you both over the years. Don’t ever feel like you made the wrong choice, I know his spirit is thanking you. Pets are as much of a blessing as children are, some even more so. My thoughts are with you as I wipe the tears from my face. I will keep reading as long as you write.
Best wishes and comforting thoughts to you both.
Blessed Be
Dammit Wil, ya made me cry. First time in years.
Be strong, bro – you’ve given Felix and your other anjimals a good life, and that includes not being selfish when it’s time to say goodbye. The end of suffering is not something to mourn, but to celebrate. Hang tough and keep spreading your love to our 4-legged friends. They need staff like you.
Damn it. I read this two days ago, cried and walked away. I came back today, read some of the comments and am crying again.
I’m sorry wil