He was adventurous.
He was very affectionate, even to people he didn't know. Deb always called him a “ Love Bug.” And he was.
Every morning he'd come out of the far corner of our clothes closet, hop up onto our bed, climb up on top of the mound of blankets and pillows that usually covered Deb, and nuzzled her awake.
He had a tail that was stronger than anything I've ever seen on a cat. He'd thump it loudly along the hallway wall as he led us excitedly towards the kitchen, knowing he was likely to get something to eat, even if it was only a kitty treat.
Even when he had to lug around a cast on his right rear leg for over a month last winter, he didn't let it slow him down. If anything he became quite adept at shucking himself of it. He went through 4 casts, the last one lasting only two days before he escaped from it.
He had a way of brightening up a room with his presence, sometimes meowing once, loudly, as he entered as if to say “I'm HEEERRREEEE!” It was difficult to be in a bad mood when he was nearby or bunting his head up against you.
He loved to chew on cardboard boxes, leaving little scraps of it all over the floor. He particularly liked the boxes in our closet, which might be one of the reasons he slept in there.
He had a home, a food dish that was rarely empty, a safe place to sleep, and a family to love and care for him.
Last night, our furry Love Bug - our Beebs - died.
We had to rush him to an emergency veterinary hospital last night. We thought he had a blocked urethra, making it impossible for him to pee, a dangerous situation with life-threatening consequences. It turns out we were wrong.
Three x-rays and one blood test later we knew the horrible truth – he'd been hit by a car. The internal injuries were bad. Even with surgery, his chances of survival were almost zero. We did the only thing we could do. We let him go.
We had a chance to see him before the doctor injected him, got a chance to say goodbye to our Beebs. He was a little groggy, still feeling the effects of the sedative he'd been given earlier. We hugged him, kissed him, smoothed his fur, scratched his head and ran our hands along whiskers. He looked at us as if to say “It'll be alright. I'll be just fine.” Deb kissed him again and said “You're Maw loves you, Beebees. I love you.”
And then we left him, neither one of us able to stay as he drew his last breath.
We weren't sure what we were going to do with him afterward. The veterinary assistant said we didn't have to make up our minds right then. We could call in the morning with our decision.
We finished the paperwork and left. We still had one thing to do that night– tell our son that Beebs was gone.
During our drive back home we talked about what to say to him, and about how we already missed Beebs. We shed more than a few tears.
When we were a few miles from home Deb asked me what I was thinking because I had fallen silent. It took me a couple of tries to get the words out.
“I want Beebs to come home. I don't want him to be buried in some anonymous field. I want to bring him home, where he belongs.” And just like that, the decision was made. We'd bring his remains home.
Beebs is going to come home.