Noodles was very sick in the last weeks of her life and had to be PTS on September 26, 2011. We thought she would be with us for a good long while yet… and our hearts are broken…

When Noodles found us, we already had 2 cats (Orion & Boots) and a dog (Merlin). That was our family, then, and we had been that way for a long time, 2 humans, 3 fursons. But she knew what she was doing… She threw herself at Bill’s feet one night while he was outside having a smoke. He thought of bringing her inside, but was afraid of the stir it might make with the other fursons, and I was asleep. He told me all about her the next day, and that she had a collar (no tags though). I said, maybe she is lost, and her humans are looking for her. I told him we should definitely bring her in, see if we can help. And so the next night he did.

We figured she had been dumped, but we weren’t sure. So in the days that followed we drove around the neighborhood, looking at the various missing-cat posters, we went to the county animal shelter to have a micro-chip check as well as asking if anyone was looking for her, we posted ‘found cat’ messages online, etc.

Noodles hated the other cats and the dog (but Merlin just adored her from first hiss), she growled, hissed and scratched at all of them. She was very protective of her own food, and couldn’t wait to eat everyone else’s. And she was a biter.

But Noodles was also very sweet, she was a gorgeous calico girl, had a huge purr and a fiery spirit. Bill always said, “she was like a winter storm, both beautiful and terrible at the same time”.

We were smitten.

Noodles did calm down after being spayed, and over time stopped hissing and growling at every furson. Her bites became love-nips which didn’t hurt. Plus we learned to read her signs of being over stimulated. She didn’t mean anything bad, she just didn’t know any other way.

While Boots & Orion were alive, Noodles would terrorize them, and yet, they would not let her on the bed when we were in it. I’m still not sure how they enforced this rule, but it was clear and precise. She could be on the bed any other time, but not when the humans were there. Humans were divided equally, one to a cat, and so, she would have to sleep elsewhere.

After Orion passed, of course she knew she could come up on the bed with impunity. There have been many nights I’ve been missing my sweet boy sleeping next to me, head on my arm… purr in my ear… and I would cry quietly. Out of nowhere, there was our Noodles, snuggling up next to me, purring, licking my hand. She was such a comfort to me these last few months. I don’t know what I’d have done if she wasn’t here. And now she’s gone too.

I miss the way she would lay next to me when I sat on the couch, and bury her head in the side of my leg and purr until she fell asleep there. I miss her love nips, the licking, the way she would run up to you if you were singing. Yes, Noodles loved music. She was the most musical of all our furs. When Bill sang, she would come running & throw herself at his feet. When I sang she would come running and throw herself at my feet.

Every morning she would be out here in the living room, in the sunbeam where ever it was shining, sunning her belly, waiting for her breakfast. When it rained, and I would open my umbrella to leave it out to dry, she always, always sat under it… too adorable.

The apartment is so cold and empty without her… Those who are only here a short time still leave their indelible mark upon our souls. Our sweet Noodles will not be forgotten.

Orion was always with me… especially during the later years of his life, always where I was, he was. When I worked from home he was in my lap or near by as possible. When I watched tv, or was reading, he was in my lap, when I went to sleep he was next to my head as close as he could get. Purring. Almost constantly purring. (Bill used to joke that Orion was my symbiote).

But that’s how it feels now, like a part of me is gone, physically, emotionally. I feel such deep sadness, my friend is gone. I loved him so, and I want to write stories of how wonderful he was, but I guess I have to wait and let the sadness get down to a lower roar, because right now it is drowning everything else out…

I’m so glad I worked from home yesterday, because it was so normal, he was in my lap, head resting on my arm while I worked.

He’d been fading, and had started to become sort of incontinent… just not making it all the way to the litter box. But last night he lost control and went in the bed. I picked him up and put him on the floor, and he did something he’s never done in 16 years… he stayed there, laid down on his side, and laid his head down too. His breathing was very rapid as well, so we knew. And we took him to the vet hospital (24-hours). They were his regular vets there as well, so it was a comfort in that way…

He was gentle always, and loved humans, no matter who visited us, he wanted pets from them… Only exception was when he felt threatened like at the vet’s. Then he would get his Brooklyn feral up. A few months ago, even though he was already sick, it took 4 humans to hold all 6.5 lbs of him so the vet could get blood. Last night, when the vet brought him back after inserting the catheter, she said how good he was.. us: he didn’t fight you? doc: nope, he was easy. <sigh>

He purred for us last night, his really big purr, with coos included, he said goodbye and I feel fortunate in that because I know from my own experiences,  it is not always the way.

I was always his human, he was always my familiar. I experienced with him communication on a level I didn’t know existed until I met him.

And now silence, and a huge empty space within myself…

Back in August of 2006, Boots was diagnosed with CRF (chronic renal failure). From that time to this,  Boots fought the valiant fight until, as expected, the kidney disease finally won out. But he (and we) did win 3 extra years full of life and the pleasure of each others company.

Even though we knew this would happen eventually, it didn’t make it any easier for any of us. There is very definitely an emptiness in our home.  That feeling of a specific missing part of the whole. It has taken me a while to get used to not having to medicate  him every night. I kept thinking it was time to do his meds. I still have to remind myself sometimes.

There were many times that Boots seemed to be studying us, as much as we would study him. He seemed to enjoy watching us, but I don’t know for sure of course. I don’t want to anthropomorphize too much, but there were times I thought he was looking at us and thinking how strange human behavior is. I remember him watching me put on pantyhose, and I swear his expression said, “What the hell is she doing?”

He was fascinated by shadow and light. So when I went to my first (and last) cat show and saw the laser pointers for sale, I got one for him. He loved that red dot, man did he ever. He especially loved spinning around in circles until he was dizzy. And as soon as he recovered he wanted to spin around again. When the laser wasn’t being used, Boots would sit and stare at the usual spots where Bill would shine it, and look back and forth at Bill and these areas, with an expression of, “well, where’s the red dot, you gonna play with me or what?” Bill would happily oblige.

And he was a belly-boy. Boots absolutely loved to have his belly rubbed, and it was never a trap. He would purr up a storm.

Boots always loved to play with the water in the water bowl. As a kitten he would place his toys in the water bowl and bat them around. He did outgrow that, but he never stopped  moving the water dish around, and always moved it into the path of human foot traffic. Despite our best efforts we eventually would kick the bowl and spill water everywhere.

Since he’s gone, the water bowl stays where it’s been placed.

We’ve got the kitty food bowls on the counter-top by the sink, and sometimes Orion gets up there and sets about making a nuisance of himself while I’m washing dishes. I’ll say, “remember, you are afraid of water” and he looks at me incredulously just before jumping down to the floor.

We have a spray bottle in the living room and merely holding it in my hands (I hardly ever have to use it) makes them stop whatever mischief they were into, and run away post-haste. It’s just water, but it is what gives us our only advantage over felinus domesticus.

If you happen to have one of those cats who is the rare exception to the rule, well, just give up my friend, there’s really nothing you can do, the cat has won.

The first day we met, you were still a puppy, you got so excited you peed on my ankle. Who could possibly get upset by that after taking one look at your gorgeous face. You were sorry, and a bit embarrassed too. We laughed it off together.

Your soulful eyes could melt any heart, and often did.

In the beginning I would spend weekends with you and Bill, and quickly learned that come Monday morning I’d better not look at your eyes if I wanted to be able to leave. You had the most puppy-dog look I’d ever seen, entreating me to please stay.

I will always remember how excited you were when we finally got all moved in, and you realized we were all going to live together.

There was one day, and I promised you, I will never forget. I was so sick, some stomach flu/virus/something. Bill was not home. But you faithfully followed me from the bed through the living room to the bathroom, where you waited patiently outside the door. Then from bathroom back to the bed where you stayed with me. You made that trip back-and-forth with me as many times as I needed, my nurse and constant companion.

You were a most well traveled dog, and traveled well you did too. You were back & forth across the US more times that most humans I know. Always so good, always up for anything, you loved every minute… well, maybe except for the desert… and boats. You were a landlubber for sure.

The first time I ever went camping was with you & Bill. We went camping along the Delaware River where we took that now infamous canoe trip. You hated being in that canoe so much, you just wanted to get out and swim for shore. You did so several times and we tipped over into the drink each time. While we waited for the bus to take us back to the campground, we saw your butt up in the air above the tall reeds, tail flying back and forth. You had found a dead fish, which you decided was the perfect cologne. You were so proud and happy to have made this discovery. After several baths it was pretty much forgotten by us, except that it sure makes a funny story. Guess you knew what you were doing after all.

You would get so upset if the pack wasn’t together all the time on vacation. If Bill went into the convenience store while we sat in the car you were inconsolable, and it was the same if I went in and he stayed with you. You just so wanted to be with us, and I guess that’s what pulled you through these last few months. I realized tonight that I hadn’t seen you wag your tail in so very long, and you always did, you always were so happy. I guess you just couldn’t spare the energy needed for that.

I’m so grateful to have been able to share 15.5 of your 16.5 years with you. I hope to meet up with you at the Rainbow Bridge one day, I will miss you every day until that moment.

People always asked us what kind of dog you were, and we always said (and will always say) the plain truth — One Hundred Percent Good Dog.

Love you baby.

About a month ago we had brought Boots to our regular vet. He seemed to be losing weight, and we were concerned, but the day we brought him in it was urgent. He’d stopped eating, wasn’t drinking water but was throwing up. Boots spent 2 nights there, after which, the vet told us Boots had a kidney stone, and that he’d most likely pass it and sent us home with antibiotic (Clavamox). He said “these things are common in older cats” (which is true, but so very limited in scope). The attitude was *NOT* “we’ll get to the bottom of this.” Boots, to his credit, seemed to recover and even gain some weight back — everything seemed fine… until last weekend when he went into crisis again. Same deal, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink, but did plenty of hurking. We thought he was leaving us. We’ve since come to find out that Boots has CRF.

We’re giving him subQ fluids, plus antibiotics, a blood pressure med, stool softener, and antacid. Hopefully much of the pills will not be needed after Monday (when we go in for more blood work). His pressure may have been high last weekend due to the crisis, and we’re keeping fingers crossed it has returned to normal now.

I remember reading about others giving their cats subQ and wondering if we’d ever be able to deal with that sort of reality — but it’s not as difficult as I’d imagined. And Boots is just so good about it, just sits there and waits.

He’s so much himself the last few days, just back-to-normal Boots (though still way underweight). Prefers the dry k/d prescription food… but that’s our Boots. The difference between last weekend and this weekend is simply death and life. We’re so glad he’s chosen to stay and fight and as long as he’s feeling good and his quality of life is good, we’ll happily oblige him.