It’s been  2 weeks since we made the decision to end our FIP-afflicted kitty’s life. PTS, put to sleep, entered our vocabulary of life’s acronyms. While the melancholy of our sudden loss did not collapse into life-disrupting despondency like I originally feared, the stab/twinge/shock of sorrow occasionally arrives unannounced, unbidden. Whether it be during the long commute to and from home, or during some idle conversation or distraction, or maybe just flipping aimlessly through the digital photo album and resurrecting an old memory, I am suddenly seized with sadness due to the emptiness he left in our lives.

I’ve cared for and fostered many a furkid in my life. All were bundles of joy and unique personalities. But there were a handful of them that entered my life that struck me as “special”, extraordinary, and unforgettable. Utterly incomparable and regrettably, lamentably, mortal; these were the souls who showed more compassion, devotion, presence, and dare I say, more humanity than any animal or human I’ve known. And, of course, as with everything and everyone you come to love so dearly, they will inevitably break your heart.

It began when we first beheld him that day at the adoption fair, he already displayed a receptiveness, openness to human contact. I will never forget the day my man picked him up and cradled him on his shoulder: Dutch (as he was named at the time) looked like he belonged there. We walked away from the fair, from the store, thinking it was just a passing fancy–weren’t they all adorably cute at that age? How better to snag the unwary hearts of potential fur-parents!

Within an hour we were back to adopt Drogo and Conan, and suddenly, irrevocably, they were our kids. We had incremented our family by two within the span of an afternoon. In the weeks and months that followed, I became absorbed with parenthood, (even though we’d soon adopt another furkid). Furbabies are different, requiring more rigorous attention and therefore filling up our memories with more interactions with them. During these periods of learning and growth, Drogo and Conan’s personalities became evident markers of who they would become as adults.

Already Drogo distinguished himself for his curiosity, courage, initiative and affability. He was the explorer and the lover all in one fuzzy bundle. He possessed pleasant communication skills, an ease with new situations, demonstrating an assertiveness that his kitten-brother lacked. He was the first out of safe haven, to explore his new surrounds, to meet his canine and feline siblings, and engage in new discoveries. He was an opportunistic rogue, daring to scale forbidden counters in search of hidden treats or toys, or deftly robbing the dog bowls for canine kibble. He tested the limits of his world almost calculatingly, with a patience and intuitiveness beyond his years. And after all his (mis)adventuring was done, he’d come to us for a cuddle and comfort,  and seemed delighted with our company above all else.

He was a good conversationalist, a champion purring machine, and a fan of tummy rubs. He excelled at fetching and recovery, so perfectly did he place the retrieved toy in my hand or lap, that I couldn’t imagine how he learned such a thing–certainly I never trained him. He bonded with us in such a short time; he followed me around when I readied for work in the mornings; he waited for me at the door when I got home at night. He seemed accepting of my after-work decompression routine, he’d patiently wait for me after workouts, then settled into my lap as I wrapped up my evening.

It was this sweet temper, this agreeableness, maybe some form of worship that obviously endeared him to us, and made his loss even more profound. He will be quite simply be sorely missed.