This is going to be longwinded. Sorry.
Fuzzy was a Christmas present from what seems like a lifetime ago. My first husband gave him to me, a tiny white ball of fluff, from behind his back. Within minutes, he was snuggled on my shoulder, asleep. Fuzzy and I bonded right away. The marriage didn’t last, however, and 3 years later we were headed for a divorce. I remember being so relieved when the soon-to-be-ex agreed that Fuzzy would stay with me. Grateful, too.
Another picture of Fuzzy. He was a handsome boy. He was a “lilac-point” Himalayan, with sky blue eyes and a thick, fuzzy white coat. His coat eventually grew to about 4-5 inches, and his tail fur could get even longer.
He was a great comfort to me in times of trouble. My grandmother died in 2001, and Fuzzy would sit on my lap, purring and kneading his claws. The divorce. The financial problems that followed. A heartbreaking miscarriage. Fuzzy was always there, soft and snuggly, to cheer me up. Such a clown, too. He’d fling himself to the ground and dare me to rub his belly, and pretend to bite me if I tried, purring all the while.
I remarried a year after my divorce was final, and my new husband liked Fuzzy so much that he became an admirer of the breed, and when another Himalayan kitten became available from the same breeder, we thought that Fuzzy would enjoy having a little sister. (He didn’t.)
Fuzzy eventually tolerated Chibi, grudgingly. Chibi was weaned prematurely, adopted at 7 weeks old, and didn’t quite know how to eat her pellets. Fuzzy showed her, by bolting down her kitten chow. She followed his lead, and finally started to gain weight and thrive. A year later, when we brought home our first (human) baby, Fuzzy was first to inspect the newcomer. He sniffed and watched the baby so intently, with a quizzical look that said, “Where did you find THIS thing, and why did you bring it HOME?”
A little stuffed chipmunk toy was Fuzzy’s favorite “lovey”. He carried the chipmunk around the house with him, by the scruff of its little neck, as though it were a kitten. He would set the toy down ever so gently, and then lick the place where his teeth had been, as though he was apologizing to it. In the mornings, the chipmunk needed to be carried upstairs, and then back down to the bedroom again at night. But he was secretive about it. He didn’t want people to see him carrying his lovey. If he heard someone coming, he’d nonchalantly drop the chipmunk and start grooming himself. Then, when the coast was clear, he’d pick it back up and continue along.
Fuzzy had one great love, when it came to food. Chicken. Any kind of chicken. As soon as there was chicken, in any format, Fuzzy was sure to arrive in the kitchen with a spring in his step and a pleading look in his eyes, within the minute. And yes, I usually gave him a little bite or two. It was the only “people food” I ever indulged him.
About a year ago, he started slowing down. He still wanted to be loved and petted. But he just wasn’t his usual frisky self anymore. He slept a lot more, and more worryingly, he’d shake in his sleep sometimes, like he was having a bad dream. Though I suspect those were actually small seizures. It became more and more frequent.
Around Christmas last year, he abruptly stopped trying to keep up with his long, fluffy coat. He refused to groom. He looked miserable, and I began to think that maybe his time was coming soon. So when he became matted, I stepped in and gave him a haircut myself. I hand-clipped with scissors (clippers were too scary) down to about 1/4" from his neck to his tail. He seemed grateful, and resumed grooming himself. He perked up a little bit, and when he strolled into the kitchen to demand some chicken one evening around New Years, I knew he was making a comeback.
And then, a month ago, his litterbox skills started to go. He seemed to forget his manners. He no longer would ask politely for a bite of chicken, on a little plate just for him. Instead he’d bold facedly jump onto the dinner table and grab a piece from someone’s plate. (!) We had to start shutting him in another room while we ate. He seemed to forget himself when it came to keeping his claws in. A jump into your lap was like getting 10 hypodermic needles at once. But as long as he was enjoying life and didn’t seem to be in pain, we had resolved to let him continue on. He started clawing the furniture again, a bad habit that I managed to train him out of some ten years ago. Interestingly, he ceased to be antagonistic to the other cat. For the first time ever, Chibi was permitted to sit right next to him. They could eat out of the same bowl at the same time. He drew the line at her cleaning his face, however. He continued to lose weight, and we started leaving out extra food to tempt him. We started making sure Chibi was kept away while he had first dibs on the food bowl. It didn’t help. He gained a bit back, and then started losing again.
And then, yesterday, while he was shut in the laundry room (chicken for dinner) he made a loud, strange meow, and then four drawn-out, piteous sounding mews. I rushed to see if he was okay, and found him curled up in a laundry basket full of clothes. He didn’t seem hurt or in pain, but his gait was different and clumsy as he walked away. (Maybe a stroke?) His eyes looked a bit more dilated than usual. He managed to hop into my lap one final time, on the third try. We spent the evening together, as we nearly always do, with him sitting on the arm of my chair. He seemed colder than usual, and indeed, it’s been an unusually cold week here in Texas, so I fixed him up a little bed on the floor before I went upstairs to bed. A heating pad, wrapped in baby blankets, on top of a folded-up comforter. He crept over to it unsteadily and laid down. A minute or two later I heard his purring resonate across the room. Happy.
Today he was worse. His eyes look sunken, and he hasn’t left his bed, except to attempt to go to the litterbox. He didn’t make it. I carried him there and held him while he did his business, and then carried him back to his warm bed. I called the vet, who said that they could see him on Monday, no sooner. The roads are iced and treacherous, and they don’t work on Sundays.
So this is it, goodbye to my Fuzzy little buddy. We’ll see if he makes it til Monday, though I kind of doubt that he will. Just trying to keep him warm and comfortable, and giving him as much love as he’ll take. He laid there for 24 hours.
And then a little while ago, I was putting dinner on the table. Chicken. And suddenly, there’s Fuzzy, stumbling and creeping along, to ask for his bite. I had tears in my eyes. Of course, buddy. Cut him up some tiny pieces and put the plate down for him. He hasn’t eaten since early yesterday, so I was curious if maybe the chicken would pique his appetite. He crawled to the plate, put his head down, sniffed the chicken and licked it a little bit, but didn’t seem to be able to eat. Neither did he seem to be able to get back to his bed. So I carried him back, putting the plate nearby just in case he wants to try again.
My heart is breaking.
