Our sweet Freddy

For some time now we have been parenting an outdoor cat that has adopted us. Freddy has become a very important part of our little family, greeting us each day, winding around our feet, slipping into our lap where he rolls and contorts trusting that we won't let him fall. He has made his home beneath a front porch bench, where we have placed his food bowls and cozy house.

The little orange cat stakes out a spot on the welcome mat each day, keeping watch should we make our way toward him, pawing the glass door whenever we approach. He talks to us as we sit with him, purring sweetly as we pat his head. He snuggles quietly with me whenever I knit outside. He's a fighter, our Freddy, protecting the homestead from other cats determined to enter our yard. But, really, we know that beneath that tough skinny exterior, scratched ears and scarred nose lies the heart of a lover.

Last night he didn't come for food. This morning he didn't greet us on the porch. We tried not to worry as he is an outdoor cat and I was certain he was distracted by chasing birds or conning someone else into feeding him.

This afternoon Cynical spied him laying near our neighbor's deck. And when he went to check on him, it was obvious he was ill, very ill. His little heart was racing, he was weak and limp. His breathing was labored.

We called the vet and met her at the clinic. There she told us that he was suffering from a build-up of fluid around his lungs and heart. The cause, she felt, was an incurable feline disease. And at that moment we had to make a decision.

And we decided that the best thing we could do for our little Freddy was to assure he'd suffer no more.

Goodbye, sweet Freddy. I miss you terribly.