Fiona passed today. She was 19 years old. It was humane euthanasia, and I was with her the whole time.
We (my ex-wife and I) adopted Fiona–or as she was known then, “Number 54,” from the Calgary Humane Society (CHS), in January 2004. The CHS estimated that she was about a year old, making her born in January, 2003. She and her kittens had been found in a cardboard box by the side of the road near Drumheller, Alberta. Number 54 and her kittens were abandoned in early January, when Alberta had a cold snap (and I mean cold, as in -25C or -13F). Number 54 protected her kittens, but at the cost of her right ear, which was lost to frostbite.
Thankfully, a Good Samaritan found the little family and brought them into the CHS, where they were cared for. The kittens grew and thrived, and were easily adopted out. Not so for Number 54–nobody wanted an adult cat who was missing an ear. She was scheduled for euthanasia, as she was just taking up space.
Then my wife and I showed up. We wanted another cat, and there were many fine ones. But while we looked at many, we just didn’t click (cat people will know what I mean). Until we got to Number 54. She jumped into my arms, purred like crazy, nuzzled my face, and let me know that I was her forever home. And I was–it bothered my (now ex) wife a bit, but there was no doubt that Number 54 was mine. She came home with us, and was named “Fiona.”
Her first night at our place, she snuggled up to me in bed, earning her the nickname, “Fiona Bear,” like a “Teddy Bear.” In future years, we would play Stairball, a game she invented, and she always loved to wear her harness and leash, so she could explore the backyard with me. Heck, I might just be cutting the grass or doing gardening, and I’d hear her piteous meows at the screen door; she wanted to explore the yard with me.
She loved napping in front of my gas fireplace on a cold winter’s night, and even in the heat of summer, would worm her way onto my lap, purring all the while, for a nap.
Sadly, she could no longer hold herself up. She collapsed on her side on Monday on the kitchen floor, and on Tuesday, was in the same place, trying to run, but she wasn’t on her feet. She had peed herself, and was wallowing in it, being unable to get away from it; and meowed piteously, and I knew it was time to take her to the vet one last time.
Friends, please join me in celebrating the life of one of the most extraordinary cats I’ve ever known. One whose life was measured in days until we adopted her, and who lived an amazing 18 years after that. And one whom I will never forget. I said to her when the vet administered the fatal shot, “We will meet again, my dear Fiona Bear, in due time.” And she gave me one last purr.
Fiona is up there frolicking with many others