Said goodbye to a furry friend today. RIP Frizzle (1996?-2011).

Yes, another pet memorial thread. Knew I’d be writing one of these sometime soon, and the time has now come. This may be long, stupid, rambly and disjointed, but I wanted this to be a sort of catharsis for me, so if you don’t care to read all of it, that’s fine. I wanted to record my memories of him while they were still fresh in my mind.

The summer of 1997 was, for the lack of a better descriptor, the Summer of Cats. My little brother was sitting at the computer one breezy night when he heard something crying right outside the window. We’d put an old couch out a few months before, and it turned out to be a convenient sitting spot for a large, fluffy black cat with a poofy tail and a small white spot on his chest. His face could be right next to the window, and someone sitting at the computer could turn and look him straight in the eye. Bro went out to visit, and the cat instantly made it clear that they were now BFF’s, and there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.

Over the next few days the cat would come back to visit. We’d feed him strips of lunch meat and water from old salad bowls in our cupboard, and sit around petting and playing with him (the only pet we had at that point was a guinea pig, so we had no supplies readily available for cats). We came to name him (eventually, after a few revisions) Chocolate Chip, or Chip for short.

My mom had a volunteer job at the library of a year-round elementary school nearby. Eventually it became her full-time job, but while she was still volunteering, she would work in the morning, then come home for lunch. And this is what she heard one day when she got home:

“Mom! There are two cats now!”

And so there were. Another black cat, very similar-looking to the first one, had appeared in the bushes near the front of the porch. They were so similar, in fact, that we concluded that they had to be littermates. The only real physical difference was that the spot on the chest was missing. This was the cat we would soon call Frizzle.

As identical as they were physically, personality-wise they were quite different. Chip was very sweet and social, with a vibrant disposition and a very high-pitched meow. Frizzle…well, we thought his meower had broken at first—it was a very low, gravelly sound. He had also hissed at us when we first approached him. When we told my mom this, she immediately thought “well, gee, I don’t want a cat that’s going to hiss at us.” But then immediately afterward came a premonition: “watch, this is going to end up being the most important cat.”

The two were inseparable. From then on, they always came as a pair, playing, eating, and sleeping together. My sister and I watched one night as they curled up together on that ratty old couch and slept in a big cuddly pile. I wish I had pictures of it, though we probably didn’t take any because it was too dark and a flash would’ve woken them up.

Because they got along so well, our plan was to adopt both of them together. While we were on vacation, a friend of my mother’s told us that we should have them screened for feline leukemia, as it’s preventable, but fatal if contracted—and contagious. So we got them tested. Chip’s was positive. We had him put down the next week, and just before we did the deed, we realized that we had no pictures of him. We remedied this by bringing a camera to the parking lot of the vet’s office and taking a few snapshots in the grassy area behind it. We weren’t in the same room as him when he finally went—the vet had advised against it, as my brother and I were both young kids at the time. After Chip had died, we had the vet dispose of the body, as we hadn’t known him for very long. We also brought Frizzle home to spend the rest of his life with us.

As much as we lamented Chip’s early loss, I’m actually somewhat glad that Frizzle was the only cat we ended up bringing home. Chip’s personality overwhelmed Frizzle’s, after all, and I felt like we wouldn’t have gotten as close to him as we did. As it is, I’m glad we did get to know him, as he really was quite the cat.

I can’t quite put my finger on what made him so special to me. It could very well be because he was my first cat (I was 10 when we got him), but a lot of people who met him agreed that he was quite the cool kitty. He was never very cuddly; he would sit next to you, and like it if you were in the same room or on the same piece of furniture as he was, but he wouldn’t climb into your lap unless he felt it was a good idea, which wasn’t often. Despite this, though, he was very tolerant. We’d pick him up and handle him like a sack of potatoes, or dangle his feet, or hold him on his back, like a baby, and he’d just get this “oh, all right, if you must” look of resignation. He was a hunter—both of them were, actually—and he often left little headless presents on our front porch. I still have vivid memories of the litter of five baby bunnies he left in our front yard, all lined up neatly in a row with their little throats torn out. He even tried to bring a live baby bunny into the house one time, much to my mother’s chagrin.

Lots of people commented on how big he was. Not having had a lot of experience with cats, I couldn’t quite make sense of this, until I went to a cat show for a girl scout volunteer activity (we cleaned cages), and saw just how itty bitty “normal” cats supposedly are. The only cats that came close to his size were the Maine Coons, which led us to believe that he might have had some of that breed in him. The heaviest he reached was about 16 pounds, and though we jokingly called him fat, it didn’t seem as though the weight was terribly out of place on a cat his size. Even later in life, after he’d dropped most of his body weight, his paws still hinted that he had once been large—and the vet commented that he had the biggest canines she’d ever seen on a cat.

He was a very loud critter. We put a bell on him when we first got him, and you could hear his jingling all throughout the house. He was also very vocal, like Chip. Sometimes I think he just liked to hear the sound of his own meow. This was probably his most annoying quality—he was very loud, very shrill, and oh so very persistent—and was certainly the main reason why my brother-in-law didn’t like him. When Frizzle got like that we’d toss him in the basement, but that wouldn’t stop the constant, ceaseless meowing. When my sister’s sister-in-law came to visit with her new baby one time, we commented that when the kid cried, he sounded just like Frizzle.

Unfortunately, Frizzle was also a sickly cat. He was a pretty picky eater and was constantly on a special diet. He was allergic to fish, and when he was about six, he got very severely ill. We still, I don’t think, have properly figured out what the heck it was he had, but he just plain stopped eating. We ended up bringing him to the University of Minnesota to run tests, and one such procedure left him with temporarily floppy ears—you can imagine how pathetic that made him look. He got down to about nine pounds, and though he eventually recovered and was able to eat again, he never got back up to his former 16-pound glory. It’s a good thing he was so tolerant, because this also made him easier to give medicine. He would wait patiently on a kitchen chair and gamely swallow the pills we shoved down his throat (though he also, to our delight, loved Pill Pockets, so once we discovered those it was a very, very good thing).

He had some pretty intense nosedives in his life—that mystery disease he’d gotten at six came back again when he was about nine or ten, his thyroid got wonky, and something made him unsteady on his back legs—but the most recent one was by far the most devastating. It started a few weeks ago, when we found that his already wobbly walk was getting steadily worse. He wanted to eat, but he did so very gingerly, and it looked as though it took a lot of work. At first the vet thought gingivitis had something to do with it, so we gave him more meds, but after about a week, it became clear that this wasn’t the case. Eventually, he couldn’t move at all. We had to carry him everywhere to get his needs met, and he’d pee where he sat, since he was too weak to use the litterbox. Even drinking water was a chore, and he had to rest his head on the side of the bowl. He was very, very skeletal. Eventually, he couldn’t even crawl out of his crate, and my mother reluctantly made the appointment to have him put down. He meowed pitifully on the way to the vet.

When we got there, the look on the vet tech’s face said it all. The staff had all loved him too, so it was just as hard a decision for them to make as it was for us. We got to the exam room, and found that the normally cold, stainless steel table had been covered with a soft, decorative cloth, and there was a box of tissues nearby. They also had a packet entitled “coping with the loss of your beloved friend.” I saw that and just about lost it. I can’t remember what actually set me off, but I was sobbing even before the paperwork was brought out. The vet gave him a tranquilizer, then when he’d relaxed a bit, they administered the final injection. They had trouble finding a vein. We held him, kissed him and cried, then left him on the table and went home. I had taken his collar off, and when I moved it to another hand to grab his carrier, it jingled. It was a very startling sound to hear, and for a moment he was right there with me again, until I remembered that he was gone.

We’re having him cremated, and spreading his ashes in the front garden where he liked to sit. We also (I know there was a thread about this recently) opted to have a paw print made. I don’t think I would have done this myself, but Frizzle was my mom’s cat and it was her decision to make.

This is very hard for me. I’ve simply never had a pet live this long before—he outlived all of our other animals, some of them combined—so the grief I’m feeling right now is terrible. I can’t even count how many times I started crying while writing this. Mourning a pet always seems like small potatoes compared to mourning a human, but this is truly kicking my ass. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut and it sucks. I’m going to go to work tomorrow, because God knows I could use the hours, but it will be very difficult. As silly and stupid and immature as this sounds, I want my kitty back. But I also know that we made the best decision, and that he has lived a long, happy life.

I knew this was going to be long, but I didn’t anticipate how long. For those of you who’ve read this far, thank you. I’m glad I got it all off my chest.

I will miss him terribly.

P.S. Here’s a picture, from happier times. He was always hard to photograph, since he was so dark, but this gives you some idea of how pretty he was.

My condolences. Two years ago we had our 17 year old cat put down. Just a few weeks ago we had his best buddy, a 17 yo shitzhu dog put down, so I understand your pain. Yeah, losing an old pet really really really is a kick in the gut. Thanks for the kitty stories. If you wanna cry a bit more you can look for my post about our kitty. It was in the Pit and called something like “fuck, here goes the cat”.

Sweet boy. :frowning:

I’m sorry for your loss.

I’m so sorry for your loss, Maiira. There are many here who understand just how crappy it is to go through this. My first post as a member of this board was about my beloved Mao’s passing away, in fact. I hope that you find some solace in the camaraderie and commiseration Dopers will offer (I know I did; heck I’m still here).

He was a beautiful soul inside & out. It is so difficult to lose out pets. You have my sincere condolences. (((hugs))) And by the way, that was a beautiful tribute to a much loved kitty.

Maiira, “Mourning a pet always seems like small potatoes compared to mourning a human,” isn’t true; grief has no scale.
Sincere condolences. Know that the best resting place for a departed furry friend is deep in your heart.
Find that ratty old heavenly couch, Frizzle and curl up with Chip.

You will get another cat.

You won’t get another Frizzle.

Hope he meets Sanka the Siamese in the sunny sleeping glade where all good cats go.

I’m sorry for your loss, it’s amazing how much joy you can get out of a stray animal that just walks into your life.

Thanks everyone. I’m a little better today, though I’m still being constantly reminded that he’s gone. When I went to eat lunch today, I thought “maybe I’ll sit outside with Frizzle…” but then I remembered I can’t.

It’ll take time, and I’ll probably be profoundly sad for a few days, but it’ll get easier. I’ll always miss him, but I’ll always remember him, too.

It does get easier, and thinking about him will make you weepy for a while - I found morning showers to be immensely cathartic, as after losing our cat Calvin (and years later, Lil Mz. Pippa), to step into the hot blast of water and sob my eyes out. Shower over & tear level dropped down a notch or two, I could pull myself together, go out into the world and manage. That was pretty much my coping mechanism for a good month or so, and the tears did (and do) become less intense, then you come to the place of just smiling when you think of them, albeit sadly.

I discovered that the depth of grieving is pretty much parallel to the depth of love felt for those we grieve, two and four-footed…

Hang in there, Maiira…it will get easier…sincere condolences…

I know how you feel and I’m sorry for your loss. I take it pretty hard too when I lose a pet.

I’m very sorry for your loss, Maiira. As is usually the case in kitty memorial threads, I’m sitting here getting all puddled up at my desk. Frizzle sounded like a wonderful friend.

I feel for your loss. My parents finally had to put down the last of a trio of house cats we had growing up about a year ago.

They all lived 15-20 years which I am told is rare.

It was crushing for my family, but as others have said more eliquently, that passes and you remember the good times.

Then, new buddies come along take their place, though they are never “replaced” and you love them too.

:slight_smile:

FTR, sitting at my desk cryin like a little girl while reading this.