Pet-Peeves: He hates it when I try to comb the knots out of his fur near his tail and tries to bite me. He also hates getting the flea and tick stuff between the shoulder blades.
Favorite Toy: a shoestring
Favorite Nap Spot: my chair
Favorite Food: Ham
Skills: Edgar can open cabinets and slip inside
Arrival Story: I had lost to illness my precious princess Gabrielle who had owned me for 11 years about three weeks before. I wanted to adopt a kitten. Amazingly there were no free kitten ads in the paper and the shelter had no kittens. Finally the shelter had one black kitten for adoption (Gabby had been black too) we raced down to the shelter only to find a couple in the process of filling out the papers to adopt the kitten. So I looked at the adult cats; I could hardly stand it, I was in tears because I wanted to take them all home. But my husband didn't want an adult; he thought it might have bad habits already. As we were leaving an employee or volunteer at the shelter said: "pssst! you want a kitten?" Seems she had a friend who was an animal rescuer who had a cat with a litter. The whole family, mama and kittens had been found in a box taped shut in a parking lot! (I hate some people). I went to go check out the kittens and there were four gray tabby girls and one little orange boy. I had gone intending to adopt one cat; a girl. (yes, I do like semicolons). Well after picking Edgar's sibling, Emily from the available girls left I said the fateful words: "Oh give me the little orange boy too." And the rest is history.
Every single day I think: "He's gone. And he's gone because I killed him." But you were so tired and so sick . . . I lost hope that you could feel better again and I couldn't bear to see you feel worse. But it is so hard to bear not having you here. I think of you in your grave... I felt so bad that it was so cold and there was snow for so long and you were out there. But you aren't out there, are you? I think you have visited me. I imagine you on my pillow every night and I reach out and stroke the air and try so very hard to feel your paws, your face.
The kids are trying. Lucy is being playful. Salem is needy and trying to give me lots of love. But they don't care when I come home. No cat greets me when I come home. Until you got so sick you were always there at the door. My little jack in the box whose head would pop up at the screen door as I pulled into the garage. One of the signs you gave me that it was time - maybe the biggest sign - was when you just didn't care anymore that I was home or just didn't have the strength or energy to get up from my pillow and make that long walk through the house to be there to greet me.
I miss you so much my little orange boy too, sunshine of my life. I miss you so much. So much.
I feel like I murdered him. The vet said: "The last thing I want you to do is feel guilty." The vet said it was time and we were doing the right thing. I've sobbed and sobbed. His bed has been put up. His dish put away. His half empty bag of fluids and the last of his clavamox, his probiotics, thrown away.
He is buried near his sister. We buried him twice. Phill buried him and I watched and then I said I couldn't stand it, we should have taken him out of that black bag. So we did. I stroked his head. Phill stroked his head.
This morning he wouldn't eat. But he drank lots of water. I refilled his "popsicle" cup after I gave it to him. I don't know why I did that. I've gotten rid of it now.
I've washed the fountain that he got so dirty by sticking his feet in it all the time. The sheets are in the wash - I hadn't washed them since he'd been sick and sleeping and coughing and sneezing on my pillow and my hair.
The vet said it was time. He went peacefully, but he looked scared. My orange boy is gone. My chest hurts.