Stevie Pickles

He was my feline watchdog, noises had to be investigated so that he could keep things together; just last night, there was commotion in the outside hallway and he came out, ears up, staring and listening intently for information.  Any loud crash would bring him running, and I had to argue with him after breaking a glass as he wanted to get right in the middle of it.  Turned into a shoving match till he tried to bite me as he would a stubborn underling and then the famous, now sweeping snow from cars broom was gotten.  No cat argues with me with a broom in my hands.  Yet he would come when the others went running, my valiant fellow.

Today, after two months of a fast weight loss with no apparent cause, I put him down.  He had been put through several tests that showed all his systems were running well; strong heart, no blood sugar or thyroid issues.  To determine if it was cancer would require exploratory surgery, and I was not going to put him through that mill of human hope when the chances were plainly not good.  He had stopped eating, taking in bits of chopped, cooked meat or cat treats before wobbling away; his bones were sticking out, muscle mass was almost gone.

I am numb from the loss of several companion pets within the frame of four months.  The remaining two are healthy, Snowbelle is just a bit crooked due to spinal malformations, but Kai is fine.   Steve had started to go downhill right after Tulip died; he paid no attention to her administrations previously, but seemed to miss her cloying attempts at being his friend afterwards.  I dunno. When Min had died the month before, he went on a rage, swatting everyone including me; that went on for a week before he settled back into letting the human be the boss.  I think he was keeping us in line, so there would be no more slip-ups.

He was difficult, till he decided he loved me.  On one side, the white fur streaked through the gray in the shape of an S; on the other side, it formed a C.  My initials, I thought.  Kismet.  I had wanted a boy cat to balance out the communal bitchiness of the four females and it worked, they turned their attention to him, with fewer battles amongst themselves.

After examination, the vet recommended euthanasia, and gave him a shot to relax; it sort of worked, sort of didn't, he became like an angry, drunken sailor. The fatal shot didn't kick in either, it put him in a state as though under anesthesia; a second injection took minutes before his heart stopped, before the last expansion of his lungs.  Goodbye, my baby; I hope you felt loved.

After he was gone, I was able to do something that he'd never allow; hold him, finally, to cradle his head in my hands, hold his paws, press into his neck with my face, telling him with gratitude the joys he had brought to this earthly plane. He was a soul among billions, a fighter who took care of the ones he loved.

Home now, but less, less than home.  I am sure the vet will call with a "this one is perfect for you" cat that will most likely come and live with us; two cats are just ridiculous when having three is absolutely no increase in the work.  But not yet.  Not until I feel Stevie is settled, that he is alright, that maybe he is not being so hard on Tulip.  My heart is scattered, a piece of it once beat inside a grey and white cat, a tough guy who allowed trust to enter, who found his home.

Steve, Tulip, Min, Moby, Martian, Eggy, Fiona Fafnir, Pi, Mimi, Skitter, Lucy, Mittens, Smoky, Joule, Kelvin, Mama, Rosealily, dear Muffin.