April 2nd, 2007 was the worst day of my life. I found out my strong, young, beautiful baby boy had Feline infectious peritonitis (FIP), a mutated virus that caused the sack around his lungs to fill up with fluid, there was no way to save him. To this day, when I trim the orange marigolds around his grave I apologize for not being able to save him. If it were a person, an animal, something I could physically fight to keep his safe, I could do it, but it was out of my hands, and for that I felt useless.
After his death, I spent a lot of time crying myself to sleep, being angry at God for taking my baby boy, and feeling as though I would never be happy again. I felt as though my spirit had died with him.
Slowly a gained it back, but it was all the small things I missed, the pitter patter of little paws on the sliding glass door demanding to be let in and out at least 50 times a day. Or the way he would shine in the sunlight in the middle of summer, like it was he who made the sun shine. I only knew him for a year, but he touched my heart like no other.
Time went on and I had two other cats who needed me, but I shall never forget that orange tabby and what he meant to me.
A year passed to the day and I found myself at the Vet's office trying like crazy to hold myself together as he told me that my smallest gray tabby was not in a good place. Due to a very sore mouth I was being pressured by family to put him down, there was also a possibility that he would stop eating, and I would have no other choice, I suppose I was being selfish, but I didn't want him to die. I broke down, my April 2nd curse was about to strike again, I knew it was only a matter of time.
He watched quietly from the patio as I dug his grave I was sure he would soon be lying in, but it was not to be, he didn't stop eating, he actually starting eating more, mainly the insides of Hot Dogs and finely chopped chicken breasts.
It was November 24, 2008 before I found myself back at the Vet's office. In a whirl wind of panic, I found myself speeding down the road towards my Vets with my 14 year old tabby in the passenger seat crying like I have never heard her cry before. I comforted her, knowing this would be her last trip to the Vet's office. She was suffering from multiple seizures. I found myself with more strenght then before, I was with her as they “put her to sleep”.
With her death, I didn't get angry or mad, I don't apologize to her, because I was there for her when she needed me, when she came to me for help I was able to respond, she didn't suffer any longer then I could help.
That night alone, I buried her next to Rusty in the spot meant for Apolo.
Because of these bundles of joy, I have found my purpose, my calling in this world. I want to make sure any animal I can reach won't suffer or feel alone or scared. I want to rescue those too old or too sick to be cared for by the rest of the world, they can have there healthy purebreds, I prefer to help those already here rather then spend money on puppy mills.
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