Tiny Cat, Huge Heart
by Cathy .........................................
We adopted Holmes, a cinnamon ocicat, on December 23, 1994, along with his chocolate ocicat brother, Moriarty. They were a perfect Christmas gift and loving companions to our domestic shorthair, Watson. Holmes was the runt of the litter and clung to Moriarty, who willingly gave him love and protection. We would not separate the devoted pair who often entertained guests by staging play fights on the living room carpet. When Moriarty died eight years later of injection-site cancer, it was his tiny brother Holmes who soldiered on, entertaining us still. We remember him scaling the door to our patio, hanging on by his claws, to peer through the window while we worked outside. He was small enough to drape himself over radiator pipes in the winter to get warm. When my ailing mother came to stay, Holmes could be counted on the jump on the couch by her side every night at eight o'clock and sit contentedly. He would amuse himself every Christmas by sitting under the tree and playing with the brass bells, creating a festive jingle. He loathed being held and would squirm until gently lowered to the floor, but he loved being petted and was a model patient at the vet's. At his heaviest, he weighed eight pounds; in later years, he barely reached five pounds. But his heart was huge and he gave unconditionally. When he was diagnosed with pancreatitis in his fifteenth year, we weren't sure how much more time we would have with him. He endured three enemas for constipation, and swallowed his medication without protest. He adjusted to a new diet and trooped along, as faithful and as cheerful a friend as ever. We rejoiced when he celebrated his eighteenth birthday, then he gave us another Christmas, though he was less curious about the ornaments on the tree. He began to eat several small meals throughout the day, then on February 12, 2013, his interest in food disappeared. He cuddled between pillows on the original bed he'd slept on when he first came to us, his life coming full circle. Eyes open, he would stare into a corner until I lay beside him, hands on his frail body, until he fell asleep for a time. He was calm. He was peaceful. Still wanting to give what he could, he rose and headed for his water dish, rear legs wobbly and his gait shifting sideways. Our hearts broke and we knew we couldn't ask anything more of him. On Valentine's Day, in our final act of love, we decided to usher Holmes across the Rainbow Bridge to reunite with his brother Moriarty and his friend Watson. I had a small vial of holy water from Lourdes that my mother had been given and I blessed his forehead. In the car, he was still as I held him, giving out some of the familiar cries that had been his signature voice for so many years. We thanked him for all he had given us, for the bonus years, the laughter, and we told him we loved him. As he drifted into sleep, his tiny head grew heavy in my hands and we knew he was heading home. It was our opportunity to hold him, to stroke his head and tiny paws, and to wish him a peaceful journey. Holmes leaves behind the most beautiful memories of a kitty who held on simply because we needed him. Always the underdog, always the giver, he had a tenacious spirit that, even at the end seemed to be telling us "if I had more to give, I would." We love him and miss him beyond what words can say. I like to believe that last night, at eight o'clock, he had found my mother and was keeping her company on a couch, maybe making her laugh by wrestling with Moriarty, keeping warm by cuddling with Watson. I hope his spirit is strong once more, his gait sure, his voice loud, and that somehow, he know how deeply thankful we are that he was a part of our lives. God Bless You, dear Holmes. You dwell with the angels.
Comments would be appreciated by the author, Cathy
 
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