"Puffin needs a playmate."
Those words were uttered by my wife, Maria, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, 2000. We had decided to adopt a black kitten by the name of Puffin the previous day, but before I went down to pick him up, Maria thought it would be a good idea for him to have a companion. So my marching order that morning was as follows: come back with two kittens, not one.
As it turned out, it didn't take long to find Puffin's soul mate. There was a litter of three kittens: Ranger, Scout and Skye. The first two were in the process of being adopted by a family, leaving the last one all by herself. I instantly fell in love with Skye. She had the cutest face of any kitten at the shelter and she had puffy gray spots on her fur which closely resembled clouds in the sky. Hence, her name.
But before I took her home, I wanted to make sure she would get along with Puffin, so I had both kittens placed in a pen to see how they interacted together. Since there didn't appear to be any issues I took both home with me.
I wish I could regale you with tails of mischief regarding Skye, but alas, there were none. Far from being a troublemaker, Skye was a model pet. While Puffin and later Henry had all the personality, she pretty much kept to herself. If anything, she was a little too standoffish. There were times she'd hide in her little hideaway and wouldn't come out for hours.
As far as her health went, there was only one period in her early life that was a cause of concern. She developed some kind of allergy that led to her losing her fur, but the Vet put her on medication that eventually cured her of the ailment. While Puffin and Henry each had illnesses that would eventually lead to their deaths, Skye was like the Rock of Gibraltar. Feed her twice a day, change her litter box regularly and she was good to go.
While it was kind of sad that Skye rarely showed much affection toward Maria and I, there were occasions when she would surprise us with a visit. Typically such visits involved her flopping on her back and letting us rub her belly. Maria sometimes would let her out on the deck where she'd walk around and hang out with us. Such moments, while memorable, were fleeting.
I won't lie to you and tell you she was my favorite pet, but that didn't mean I didn't love her. Whenever Puffin would roughhouse with her, I'd do my best to make sure she didn't get beat up, especially since the poor thing rarely fought back. When we rescued Lily, we were concerned about how Skye would react. As it turned out we had nothing to worry about; the two got along just fine. But then that was typical: Skye got along well with everyone. She was the personification of a wallflower.
Several years ago we noticed Skye seemed to be losing weight. We took her to the Vet who diagnosed her with having a hyper-active thyroid. She was put on Methimazole, which stabilized her weight, albeit at a level significantly below where it normally would be.
She was doing well until about a year ago when she started making loud noises at various times of the day and night. At first we thought it was because she was losing her hearing, but then we noticed it happened a lot whenever she would go to her litter box. Last October, while Maria and I were on vacation for our anniversary, the Vet called to inform us that she noticed blood in the litter box and that might explain why Skye was making the loud noises. She suggested we put her on subcutaneous fluids to help her kidneys, which had to be administered via injections three times a week. The Vet technician showed us how to do it, and after a while we got the hang of it.
We'd dealt with sick pets before - even pets who were dying from cancer - but this was the first time we had to contend with a pet who was ostensibly in hospice. Old age is a stage of life few cats ever attain, but there was Skye, determined to hold on. She was as resilient as she was shy.
Near the end, she started to lose control of her bladder, and Maria had to lay down wee-wee pads on the couch in the basement where she and Lily stayed. I can't tell you how many times she changed those mats; twice a day seven days a week, so figure at least a hundred. When she stopped grooming herself two months ago, we figured she didn't have long to go.
Between injecting her with the fluids, giving her her medication and now having to wipe her hind quarters, Skye was becoming a full-time patient. Her quality of life was rapidly fading. We discussed putting her to sleep, but felt as long as she could eat something and was able to walk around on her own strength, it wasn't necessary.
All that changed this past Friday. We went down to give her her fluids and she could barely stand up. She had no desire to eat and couldn't even jump up on the couch. We knew in that instant it was over. I called the Vet and made the appointment for noon the next day.
Maria and I have gone through this two other times: with Henry our dog and Puffin our first cat. Believe me, it doesn't get any easier the third time around. There is no instruction manual for saying goodbye to a precious pet. They don't explain this part of the journey when you adopt a dog or cat; if they did, probably no one would bother to sign up for it. Who wants to have their heart torn out? Grief stricken doesn't begin to describe the anguish one feels as they see the life snuffed out of a loved one. A part of you dies with them and never comes back. I sobbed like a little boy, and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
Though we are comforted by the knowledge that we did everything we could for Skye, we still miss her dearly. To borrow a line form the ending of the movie Shawdowlands, "the pain now is part of the happiness then."
She is with Puffin and Henry now at the foot of the Rainbow bridge, waiting for that inevitable day when all of us will be reunited and cross over together into Paradise, free from suffering, and without a care in the world.
Until then, sleep well, my Pie in the Skye. You've earned your rest.
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