A Letter To Zack

Hey furface,

I wish I could make you better. I wish you really did have nine lives. I’m sure even in your confused, tired, medication-fogged brain, you know things aren’t good. You sleep all the time, you barely eat, and you can’t even manage to get up the energy to be around your people, which used to give you so much joy.

It was only three short years ago when you became part of our family. I remember going to the shelter - just  some woman’s home – and picking out you and your brother. You were part of a writhing mass of kittens, jumping and scurrying around. There were three that looked like you, and three that looked like Zipper. The other options were orange and white kitties – and I’d had an orange cat before – and some long hairs that weren’t an option due to you-know-who’s objection to “all that shedding.” So I picked one of each. You each got little zip-tie collars around your necks with your new last name on them, and we had to wait two weeks – which felt like a year – before we brought you home. You joined our family to replace another furbaby who lost a battle with a coyote. What a great choice I made.

Within 48 hours you both were so sick, we didn’t think you would make it. We literally nursed you back to health, and then your little personality became clear. You were the calm, loving one. Always content to sit on the nearest lap. But you sure were a funny cat. A little off balance, with a croaky, barely audible  meow.  You got the most attention with your soft, uniquely coloured coat and your tranquil attitude.

But your health has never been good. Nasty, oozing rashes appeared around your neck, and you were diagnosed with a food allergy. No more pet store food for you – oh, no, only the expensive, hypoallergenic stuff from then on. You’ve always been on the thin side, probably because your bully of a brother managed to muscle you away from the food dish every morning. That’s when we first realized something was wrong. We separated you two to eat, and noticed you weren’t eating much. Then the seizures started.

Now you’re likely in the last days of your life. A terminal virus called FIP is doing it its worst. The vet keeps telling us some cats live long, relatively uncomplicated lives with FIP, but in my heart I know that’s not you. I’ve always kind of known you weren’t long for this life. And even though it’s been a short time – you’re not even out of your 20’s in people-speak – I think you’ve had a good stay on this planet. You’ve been loved like a child, given good food, cold water, comfy places to sleep, and the occasional ball to bat around.

I wish you could tell me when enough is enough. But you can’t, so I can only go with my gut. But I promise, it won’t last much longer. I already know what Zack heaven looks like – all the kibble you want, a vast field of burgundy microfleece to sleep on, and pain-free peace.

You will be missed.