Mr. Fluffypants 7/20/2009 - 11/6/2020

You know what sucks?  Printing the e-receipt from the veterinarian where you just had the best cat you’ve ever known put to sleep.  

Mr. Fluffypants really was the best cat I’ve ever known.  (Why else would I name my blog after him?) He was always pliant and loveable when you needed him to be.  A little playful and silly, but mostly loveable.  He wasn’t the kind of cat who didn’t care what you wanted.  He cared.  He cared what you wanted, how you felt, if you needed a snuggle. He’s the reason one of my children made it through kindergarten, and first grade, and second grade. (School wasn’t her thing for a while. She’d cuddle him at the end of the day though, and all was right with the world.) Mr. Fluffypants was a lover, through and through. He’d hold your hand with his paw and aggressively snuggle, even if what he really wanted was some canned food.

Right now, my heart is breaking. I want to hear his big purr and feel his fluffy feet.  I want my kids to laugh as they sing the funny song they made up for him. I want to tease him about being smelly (his only flaw). That is not to be though.  It’s just me and my sad heart, not looking forward to telling the kids. 

Freddy Has Left the Building

Freddy
June 20, 2009 - September 16, 2019

A few weeks after my dad died, my mom’s cat had kittens the day before Fathers Day. It was a sign. We had been looking for a kitten for my girls so I asked my mom to tame them for us (her cats are mostly feral farm cats). She did a great job of visiting them every day and teaching them about humans. They were pretty little white things with big blue eyes and friendly as they could be. When the time came to choose one, of course my girls each wanted a different cat. I called my husband and said “What would you think if we brought two cats home?” He thought I was kidding and said "do it". He knows now I do not kid about two cats instead of one. Each girl happily held their kitten and smiled all the way home.

Freddy and Mr. Fluffypants and their adoring girls.

His favorite chin rest.

My younger daughter, at three and a half, couldn’t choose between many wonderful names like Sparkle and Sunshine. My oldest, at almost seven, quickly named hers after a TV character, Freddy from iCarly. From the start Freddy was a real character himself. Playful and silly, he was the more energetic of the two. He was spunky and smart. He loved teasing our slightly older and much grumpier cat, Birdie. Menda, the other kitten's eventual name for a while until he became Mr. Fluffypants, was funny and fun, too, but he was also content to snuggle for hours if that’s what his girl wanted. Freddy was good for a very short snuggle and then he was off again. Freddy played with our dogs and stalked birds in the yard. He chased yarn and jingly toys all day long. He was also a strange cat. You never knew where you'd find Freddy or what he'd be up to. He was the kind of cat who wriggled into impossible places and would bat at your hair from behind when you had no idea he was even there. He also drank with his paw like a raccoon. Or, he'd put his paws on the side of the bowl and lean all the way across the bowl to drink from the far side. And nobody liked a chin rest more than Freddy. He loved to lay under our coffee table and rest his chin on the cross pieces, or use the backs of our bar stools as chin rests. It became a family joke how good he was at finding places to lay with chin rests. His love for Squinkies - tiny rubber toys that bounced crazily when he'd bat them across the room - was unrivaled. He was known to have a little stash of them in a closet because he'd knock them under the door then come begging for another when he realized he had lost one. Even as an older cat Freddy was playful, right up until last April.

We had been teasing him about getting kind of chubby, but one day I noticed he wasn't so chubby anymore. I started paying attention to his condition and what he was eating. He had kind of gone off dry food. I thought it was his teeth. I took him to the vet who diagnosed one thing and treated it, but the treatment didn't help. Another vet concurred with the first vet, but by this time Freddy had other mysterious symptoms. Blood tests were inconclusive. The second vet prescribed an antibiotic, which helped a lot, until it was gone. Freddy went downhill again. Another antibiotic also helped, until it was gone. Freddy held his own for several weeks though, until he didn't. His final decline was dramatic. He went from eating well last Monday to barely eating by Friday to giving him water with a syringe on Sunday. I took him back to the vet, who by now had named him Freddy the Mystery, submitted him to more blood tests and brought another antibiotic home. He won't get to finish this one though. He woke me up this morning crying pitifully. He had crawled out of his bed but was too weak to go far. I held him for over an hour. I cried and told him thank you for being such a good friend to my kids. He breathed shallowly and his heart raced but he seemed to appreciate my warmth. After some time, he flopped off my chest onto the sofa and I got the feeling he was ready to be left alone. I laid him on a dog bed beside me where I know he is dying. Ironically, Mr. Fluffypants has unearthed a jingly ball and is chasing it around the kitchen. That seems an appropriate send off for his playful brother.

Rest in peace Freddy. You were a good cat.

Freddy loved laying on my son's giant stuffed penguin.

Back in his chubby days.

With one of his favorite toys - a squinkie!

Typical Freddy

Cat in a box.

He was a handsome devil.

I really did find them like this one morning. I guess he did like snuggling after all.

Young Freddy exploring.

Ginny

I wrote this post almost two months ago.  My dog Ginny was rapidly declining, and I could not ignore the inevitable.  The night I really understood her end was near I stayed up late, unable to sleep.  I finally wrote this on my phone but was too raw to post it.  She hung in there exactly a week, which is almost a week longer than I expected her to.  Ginny has been gone now just over a month, and I'm okay with sharing this.  I can read it without weeping, and choose pictures that make me smile for my sweet girl.
-rue

The last picture I took of Ginny, the day before she died.
She had a great day and I hoped she would rally and stick
around a while but the next morning there was no question
it was time to let her go.

My dog is dying.  God, what awful words.  How unfair it is that our sweet friends are given such short lives.  To be honest, Ginny has technically been dying for a while now.  We found her first tumor two and a half years ago.  We chose not to treat it because she was already nine years old and I decided that if the cancer grew quickly it was already too late (the tumor was soft ball size and involved a leg when we found it), and I didn't want her remaining time filled with uncomfortable (at best) treatments.  If it was slow growing, I hoped we'd get to keep her to a natural lifespan, which for her breed is 12-15 years.  Fortunately, it was a slow grower and she lived well with it.  It has caught up to her now though, and the end is coming.  The stupid, heartbreaking end.

Ginny was a bonus dog in my life.  My father-in-law imported her grandfather from England.  He was a rancher who bred his own dogs to help work his cattle.  Ginny's grandfather was his star dog.  Her father, Hooper, had been a special gift to my husband when he was in college.  We bred Hooper during what became his last year alive to continue the line. I called them heirloom puppies.  We only meant to keep one, but when we went to pick up our choice, I couldn't stop looking at Ginny.  She was fat and wiggly and sweet.  Her pretty little face just stood out from the rest, and considering there were eleven beautiful puppies in her liter, that's really saying something.  My husband saw that I couldn't leave her alone.  We had already chosen one dog, the only one we intended to keep, but he said "Do you want to get two?"  Oh boy!  Did I!!!  I would have kept all eleven if I could have and he knew it, so giving me the go ahead to claim another one was like Chirstmas in August. Bonus dog!  I scooped her up, happy as a clam.  

As we got to know our new puppies, we could see Ginny was a meek one.  I decided to name her after the Harry Potter character who was shy but strong and also a beautiful red head.  Her brother Rex became the king.

Elise with Ginny.  They were a great pair from the start.

Our oldest daughter was seven months old when we brought the puppies home, and Rex was a little rambunctious for her.   Ginny as very calm and patient.  Our daughter was crawling and figured out pretty fast how to find the puppies.  She loved to pat Ginny and Ginny allowed it.  Rex would take a little affection, but he liked to jump on her and play too rough.  Ginny just wanted snuggles.

Madelyn, rubbing Ginny's tummy on her last good day.
Madelyn knew Ginny wasn't well and wanted to make her
feel better.  You can see from the look on Ginny's face
that she basked in the attention.

Ginny always wanted snuggles.  She was willing to play fetch, go on long walks or perform all the fun tricks she knew, but you could hear her heart sing when she got a good loving.  Her favorite thing is still having someone sit on the floor and rub her tummy.  Just tonight I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed that tummy.  She smiled her dog smile and was happy.  

These good dogs grew up with our kids, and I suppose there is a case to be made for the whole comparison of kids leaving the nest and dogs moving on to explain why I'm so sad, but honestly, I'm a mess every time a pet dies.  I'm practically weeping just writing this,  how am I going to tell my kids about Ginny?  They can see she is very sick, but how will I get through telling them it's time for her to go?  That she's gone?  I hate this.