The day you passed, we ordered every conceivable photo of you we had - over 300. They arrived yesterday. I am happy we have these little momentos of you, and when we are missing you so much, we get to visit those memories in photographs.

I still expect to see you in any room I go into, or, like today when resting in bed, to have you try and wiggle your way under the covers. I miss that so much. I miss watching you and Daddy play, I miss hearing you talk to us.

I remember on the last day before you left us, you were feeling so groggy that when I put my hands out you'd rest your forehead in my palm and let me massage your head and neck. I hope that made you feel better.

We miss our little cuddle bug chatter box and your evening crazies when you'd leap and race around the house, how you adored your mice and catnip. Sometimes I think I hear you in your litterbox still. I miss the sound of you crunching loudly on your food in the middle of the night. All these little things that gave another layer of life to the house. And that look in your eye when you knew Mommy was gonna chase you, how your ears would go back and you'd get that curl in your tail as you took off down the hall.

You were such a cutie-pie, a handsome cat, and our baby. We miss you.

As each day passes, the void in our hearts hasn't lessened. We have small comfort in knowing you didn't suffer much and there was little we could do to save you as we learn more about how sick you were. Our sadness will always be there that you are not here to experience each day with us, but our minds are a little more at ease.

We miss feeling needed and wanted by you. Your constant and patient interaction with us is a cherished memory. Daddy misses you crawling after him, begging for him to pick you up, pet you, play with you--all of which he would lovingly indulge you. I miss feeling you knead me and shove your face into my neck and softly purr. That look on your face when you were so utterly happy or sleepy and wanting Mommy time.  You defined us as parents and we had a purpose.

Our compass feels off and we try to keep busy. I find myself pacing, sometimes wandering around, waiting for you to meow at me and tell me what you want or need. I keep having the feeling you're just in a secret sleeping spot and you'll walk around the corner any minute with an inquisitive chuff and that lazy curl in your tail.

Watching our old videos of you and looking at your pictures helps ease the pain, but it is no substitute for the scent of your soft fur, the feeling of your warmth draped over us, or the bright look of your playful eye engaging us to romp with you.

We miss you so much.

There are so many reminders of you in this house, something I am happy for. I can’t tell you how much we miss your little noises that you’d make. Even when you were curled up between us in the dead of night and I just needed to touch you, you’d raise your head and respond with the cutest half meow, half purr.

I see you out of the corner of my eye all the time, and when certain shapes and colors are bundled up somewhere I think it’s you. Sorrow fills my heart when I realize it’s just a trick of the eyes.

The little things that are missing are what hurt the most, I think. Like coming home and seeing all your little paw imprints on the bedspread, now perfectly smooth as when we left it, all your kibble bits scattered all over the kitchen floor, the sound of you jumping on the window sill behind me as I clacked away on the computer, and your curious little face poking out from behind the curtain.

We are so in love with you. The way your pink nose would flush when you were excited, the beautiful shade of green of your eyes with your impossibly white fur complimented by your black cloak. The way your mouth would open to let out even louder purrs when we rubbed your nose—you loved that so much. How, when Daddy would pick you up, you’d hold on to his shoulders so tight and give him such loving kisses.

I loved to see you how excited you’d get when Daddy walked into the room. You’d give him an inquisitive trill and flop over so he’d have no choice but to go up and give you your deep massage you loved so much.  

I miss how you’d wrap your body around my head when I had a migraine and settle your throat right across my ear and purr, as if you knew exactly what would take away the pain.  I miss how you’d jump into my arms and let me carry you around and how you’d nuzzle in my ear as if that was the most content you’d ever been—aside from being outside soaking up the sun and rolling in the grass.

We miss you so much, Ferris. We miss you under the Christmas tree; we miss you under the credenza, watching us from a distance. I miss hearing you gallop through the house and treating every possible structure as a fort. We miss your kisses, your warmth and the endless hours of love you gave us.

Getting up to start the day is so hard without you.  I thought it would be easier because you wouldn’t be snuggled up next to me making it difficult to leave the cozy bed—I was wrong. I remember how, if we missed the alarm, you’d be at the foot of the bed giving your short “meh!” bark to gently wake us up. And when I stumbled into the shower, you’d be sure to follow.  I spent more time in there than necessary because you and I would be playing through the shower curtain.  Before I even had a chance to towel off, you’d be trying to climb me, impatiently waiting for me to dry off.  But once I did, you’d hop into my arms and shove your little face into the hollow of my neck, purring as if enjoying how clean I was or you just liked the feeling of my wet hair.  Either way, you made it hard to start the day. Some days we just crawled back into bed with Daddy and relaxed until the last possible moment, other days, I held you as I made coffee and lunches with one hand. Of course, if the lunch was made with any type of meat, you surely benefited.

As I got ready and Daddy got out of the shower the two of you (one of Daddy’s favorite things in the morning) would play Blankie Monster and rough-house, but he could never say no to your cutesy-act begging for love—no matter how late we were.

When we both were readying to leave the house, you’d leave your favorite perch in the sunny office window to say goodbye, and of course, get more pets, as if wishing us a good day. Every day we’d say, “bye, baby! Be a good boy!” Even though you are not there, I whispered it anyway this morning as I locked the door.

Going home is hard. When we drove up to the house, we’d either see your little face in the window waiting for us or as we burst through the door, you’d be there to greet us. Often times with one of our socks you dug out of the laundry basket in the entry way or on the bed, which told us how much you missed us too.  The house is silent and utterly empty.  I find myself wandering the house, going to all your little spots you loved so much hoping that when I walk into the room you’ll be there, lifting your head and giving me a meow to say hello like you’ve always done before.  I can’t bring myself to wash off your nose marks from the window.

I will miss you at the dinner table, trying your hardest to bargain for a treat.  You always knew Daddy would be the first to crumble and when that failed, then you knew Mommy couldn’t say no to your sweet, bright eyes. 

When we unwound for the evening, I loved how you’d demand my lap as your personal real estate, and there was so much comfort and love I felt when you’d rest your head on my arm. You always made me feel special when you’d sit up and crane your neck to give me kisses, purr and talk to me. I loved to watch you and Daddy play with Mr. String, and you provided endless giggles when you got a hold of your catnip bag.

If we stayed up too late, you’d be there to tell us. Barking at us to follow you into the bedroom. Your human heaters were needed! Even though I always wanted to snuggle with you, you’d naturally resist, but then always come back as if suddenly it was now your idea. If you didn’t want to lay beneath the covers, you’d always treat Mommy like furniture, and I was perfectly okay with that.  Daddy always called you my sleep charm, because as soon as you’d settle down and I could run my fingers through your soft, warm fur and hear you purr, I’d be out too, quickly joining you in dream land.

We miss the warmth you gave to our home—that house has never been without you. We miss all the little noises you made and we took great pride in being able to understand your facial expressions and what each of those little barks and chuffs meant. I miss feeling your paws climb over me, pat my head, touch my face and Daddy misses his buddy who he could play with on the chair, chase around the bed and get to talk to him. Not only were you a snuggle bug, you were a chatter box and always made us feel special.

Love,

Mommy & Daddy

Christmas was one of your favorite times of the year. It’s hard to pull down these boxes and not have you pestering me to jump in them, sniff everything and inspect it before letting me get it past you to put on the tree. I see your hair all over the tree skirt still, and it will stay there. As I set up the lights I keep expecting to see you curled up under the tree, or trying to get my attention by swatting at the ornaments. We always knew we’d sacrifice a few to you. There were a few times I’d come home and find shiny baubles in places they shouldn’t be. I sat and cried when I pulled out your stocking. We won't be hanging ours this year...it would be just to weird to not see a third up there--yours.

I loved that whenever I’d pull out the gift wrap, you’d be there to sit on it, chew the ribbon, or give the corner of the gift box your personal touch with a few teeth marks. We’d have hours of fun with a gift wrap tube.

You loved the excitement, the warmth, and of course the food of the holidays. How you’d pine and play cutesy to get your way and grab our hands to guide our yummy morsels toward your mouth. And of course, we’d always indulge you.

Winter storms were your favorite to observe from the inside—the one time you didn’t want to be outside. Even though we’d boot you out there when you’d cry, you’d spring back in as soon as that freezing rain hit you. You loved to sit for hours at the window and chitter at leaves as they’d dance in the wind. And on especially cold mornings, you’d snuggle under the covers with me, scratching at my head to be let in. I loved the feel of your soft fur and your deep purr could always lull me back to sleep. How you’d nuzzle and love me still just as you did when you were a kitten is something I will deeply miss. I loved how you’d tuck your paws under my cheek against the pillow and drool as I drew circles on top of your head. On lazy winter mornings, if Daddy wasn’t already awake, your contented purring would and even though you’d protest at first, you’d let us tuck you between us where we could both give you pets.

These winter days and holiday season will never be the same without you.

Love,

Mommy & Daddy

April 18, 1999 - November 27, 2009

We lost our beloved Ferris early this morning after a short battle with lung tumors. After his emergency visit in September, we noticed he had a persistant cough that wouldn't go away.  The veterinarian took his x-rays and found tumors, something that occurs in about one percent or less of animals. We made a date for his biopsy to see if there was anything we could do to save him, but on Tuesday, his conditioned worsened. We expedited his biopsy appointment, and after the procedure, it was apparent Ferris wasn't going to survive the aggressive tumors.

To keep him from suffering, we decided to let him go. It was peaceful, he didn't feel anything and we were there to hold him and tell him how much we was a sweet, beautiful boy and how much we loved him.

Our house feels so quiet, empty as does our hearts. We are mourning the loss of our fur-child, our baby who put up with us and loved us unconditionally. We take comfort in knowing we gave him everything ever wanted and he knew he was loved--and that he loved us back.

Ferris loved being chased around the house to play hide-and-seek, loved to be with us outside, loved for us to play with Mr. String and Blankie Monster with him. Every morning, it was ritual.  He'd wake us up with a grumble, a purr, or a persistant meow to let us know he was hungry. He'd follow me into the shower where he wanted to be held the moment I got out. He loved for his Daddy to give him massages and rough-housing before we left for the day, only to be at the door or window to greet us when we got home. He always joined us for meals, never wasting an opportunity to ask for a treat, and he relaxed with us where ever we decided to wind down from a busy day. Even now, as I write this, I keep expecting him to crawl up the side of the chair, or beg to be picked up and placed in my lap where he would purr, drool and cry out if I wasn't paying enough attention to him. My lap is cold. He should be curled up here with me. At night, he loved to curl up between us, on top of us, and when we weren't feeling well, he'd curl up next to our heads as if sensing we were sick or sad. I loved feeling him fall asleep in my arms as he'd take one last deep purr and settle into a dream. All of his vocal cries, meows, impatient huffs, attention barks, and how his hot, stinky kisses could dash away any bad day.

We learned so much from our baby Ferris. Patience, never miss an opportunity to relax, always show your love and affection freely and, if the situation warranted, with drool, never have too much pride to ask for what you want--you will probably get it, and enjoy the simple beauty of everything around you, even if it's that darn neighborhood street cat taunting you through the window. And no matter if no one understands you, talk. Chances are they'll get used to you enough to know what you're trying to say.

He will never leave our hearts, we have our wonderful memories of him. When no one else wanted him, we gave him the happiest home and almost 11 years of a wonderful life.

Ferris, thank you so much for finding us, and letting us love you, and in no uncertain terms, loving us.

We kept him our room for the better part of the day. During a break I stowed him away in his room with food and water so he'd also have access to his litter box. We kept him in there for a few hours. He didn't seem interested in using any of those services, so I put him back in our room so we could have the front window's air circulation.

Once we were finished for the evening, Vin went into the room to let him out. It was there he discovered Ferris had had an accident on the bed, and was very distraught over it, hiding under our bed. Once he came out, he threw up all over the floor. Trying to comfort him so he knew it wasn't his fault, I knew there was something wrong with him right away. Earlier in the afternoon he had suffered, unbeknownst to me, an asthma attack. I thought it was a simple hairball he was coughing up.

After he was let out of the room, he was distant, trying to hide, slow-moving and visibly depressed. I figured it was just his shame of having an accident. Vin left that evening to go with our friend Curt to catfish.

After I settled in for the night, I noticed Ferris wasn't well at all. He had flopped into the office, where I was, and when I called to him, he wasn't responsive. I knelt down to pick him up and he was limp in my hands. He came to once I had him in my arms, but promptly wanted down. He crawled under my desk and laid his head down, his breathing labored. I called my friend Cheryl to come look at him. She would tell me if I was paranoid or not.

She agreed he didn't seem well so off to the emergency vet we went. Usually when Ferris is in his carrier he cries and yowls the whole time. Not this night, he promptly curled up into a quiet ball. Once at the vet he was so lethargic and listless. Two hours later, the doctor was able to see him and didn't see any reason to run tests. I do love how they give you worst case scenario to send you into a panic, though. The words "Kidney failure, and acute renal failure" were mentioned. Yes, I cried. But, she didn't see me paying for emergency rate tests and to wait until our vet could see Ferris.

We had to wait until Wednesday to take him because our vet was on an extended holiday for the labor day weekend. Those were the longest 3 days of monitoring and watching the little bugger to make sure he was eating, drinking, pooping and peeing. He didn't seem to appreciate the extra attention, not one bit. He couldn't bring himself to liven up, but he certain could flick his tail in a way that told me to leave him alone.

Overall Vin and I got him back on all four feet and his vet did a blood panel that told us he was perfectly fine. Healthy as a ... well, cat. No failure of any kind, just elevated white blood counts due to stress. The construction was dusty, smelly and loud, definitely not a fun place for a kitty. Cheryl said, "He sure is a sensitive little guy..."

She is so right!

Thankfully he didn't pee on something, like the bed (or the dog several years ago when we brought him home. Yes, he peed ON the dog), or yack on our faces in our sleep when we got home, instead he ignored us. He didn't want to be picked up, held or be played with in any matter.

Until it was time for bed the day we got back. He cried to be held, cuddled, petted and loved. And then, he talked all damn night.

I don't know about y'alls cats, but ours talks to us. Yes, as in chats. I'll be holding him, petting him, kissing on him, or trying to snooze off and he'll be chittering, meowing, chuffing, purring until he's ready to go to sleep. He's done this for the last two nights, catching us up, I'm sure, on all his shenanigans over the last few days. Like why his food is in tiny kibble bits all over the kitchen floor, or how so much food gets in his water, or how he shed two inches of fur all over the bed.

It's okay. We know he missed us, and during our time in Crescent City, we missed him to pieces too.

 Since we've decided to not let him out any more (torture, abuse, neglect, I know!) we've noticed a significant decrease in his yack-land mines. Until this week. He must have a blockage. We've been feeding him the Halo brand foods and mixing hair-ball remedy in to help him out. But, back to the land mine story.

 I had left my towel on the corner of the bed last. The next morning, groggily getting up to start my day I grabbed up the towel and headed into the shower. After, I blinked the water and sleep out of my eyes and went to dry my face off in the plush yellow towel and was welcomed with half-dried cat yack. Thankfully I had opened my eyes enough to see it before I gave myself a cat-vomit facial.

 I suppose I should be grateful he aimed for the towel and not the carpet or the bedspread.

 Ferris has taken to, in the mornings, sitting on top of the table (a big no-no) to survey his great savannah (the backyard) like a lion. Before, he'd scramble off a surface he knew he wasn't supposed to be on, but with his cantankerous age, he'll sullenly glare at me before he lopes off, only to return to the spot, I'm sure, after I leave.

He hates Petromalt, probably because I used to chase him around the house with it, and will even avoid wet food it's mixed up in. We've put it in the natural Halo food, but that in itself looks like vomit and I don't blame Ferris one bit for turning his nose up at it. I don't want to eat food that looks like vomit either.

So, keeping him indoors, much to his utter dismay, seems to be doing the trick in keeping him healthy. No grass feeding for this kitty!