This blog is late simply because, when a loved one passes - even if that loved one is a pet - it tends to take the wind out of one's sails. Dealing with real-world death always renders those seen on screen as pointless. Irrelevant. On Thursday, October 7th, the wife and I said goodbye to our cat, Doc, as a result of Feline Infectious Peritonitis. Long explanation short, pretty much every cat carries it, but a ridiculously small amount actually succumb to it because it could lie dormant for the life of the animal. Doc was not so lucky. The vet told us that there really was nothing we could've done, which was a small comfort. My mother-in-law made us feel better by pointing out that most families wouldn't have kept Doc for his lifetime, which made us good, if not great, parents. You see, for the first few months of Doc's life, he was feral, and never completely grew out of that. He would, on occasion, allow my wife to pick him up and pet him, but he never really wanted anything to do with me. Perhaps because I walk heavy, or maybe because I'm louder than he liked. The fact remains that I never had much of a relationship with Doc. My one memory of our interaction is a bit off-color, and not worth telling. Which is why I've been a bit surprised at my own reaction - the sadness that comes at random, the pain I feel when my oldest cat mews as if he knows that Doc is gone and not coming back. I had a dream the following night that had me fighting back sobs because of how real it was up until the realization that, no, Doc wasn't coming back.
This is a long way to say, "Goodbye Doc. I'll miss you."
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