Goodbye, Foggy

"I'll Remember you,
when I've forgotten all the rest;
You to me were true,
You to me were the best..."
--Bob Dylan, from "I'll Remember You" from the album Empire Burlesque, 1980.

Tonight I write a blog which I hoped to never have to do, but one that needs be done.

This afternoon at 2:30, I lost my beloved friend Foggy. Foggy was sixteen and a half years old (84 for you and me) and was the cat that practically no one ever saw. She ducked when strangers came by and basically lived in the third bedroom. About two weeks ago, I noticed a shift in Foggy’s actions/attitude. She found a new spot to hang out (the dining room) and she began to beg for food. My worst fears were confirmed when she ate some of Guinness’ regurgitated food, as it was softer and contained moisture. Gross, I know, but that was a clue that she could no longer keep kibbles down. She hung around the water dish off and on for months, but since I saw no vomit, I assume she was not going through kidney failure. I assumed wrong. When I took her to the vet today, her bowels were blocked and she was down to under four pounds. I knew the humane decision to make, and I made it.

Foggy was my three-legged cat that some moron had victimized by cutting off her foot. That was nearly seventeen years ago. My hope is I gave Foggy a better home than the person who tried to destroy her will ever have. Foggy was also the cat that touched my heart. She was so gentle, and she always looked to me to comfort her. Truth be told, Foggy chose me after a friend recommended I take her, because when she came into the Humane Society, she was drenched in fleas, and as the animal care folks picked them off, she begged to be petted and purred. When I met her, she raised her paw and touched my face.

She had one elbow that was broken at a 90 degree angle by the person who held her and lopped off her foot at the ankle. She also had three breaks in her hip, more than likely from being thrown down, so she more than likely grew accustomed to pain. She was the reason I gave money to the Humane Society. I wanted to give animals treated like Foggy a chance.

Her name came from the Carl Sandberg poem, “the fog comes in on little cat feet” and because she was grey-ish and close to the ground. She also would chase her tail, so I surmised she was “foggy on the brain.”

She was not a mouser, not a greeter, and not a confrontational cat, although she could hold her own with the 32 pound Chumley. She was just fiercely loyal to me. When I had heart surgery, she came out in room of people when I went to my bedroom at home to be with me. That night, she stood loyal guard over me as I slept. She missed me when she had surgery and had to stay at the vets for a week. I would come and visit her every day and the vets remarked how up she was when I came in. She also missed me when I was out for the stroke and came bounding up when I arrived home.

I will miss her gentle spirit and her sweet nuzzles, as she liked to do to my belly. I will miss saying “HI Fogs,” every morning. Most of all, I will miss her hugs and leans when I would put her up on my shoulders.

Good bye my sweet friend, I will miss you very much. I hope I made you as comfortable as you made me. Love ya, Fogs. See you in the next life.

It Was 47 Years Ago Today...

"It's a long December and I've got reason to believe,

That this year will be better than the last..."

--Counting Crows

Another year older, not altogether certain if I am another year wiser, but with experience comes some forms of intellect.
What can I write about being 47? I have gone through about three of the most stressful situations one can go through in the last five years—major illness, divorce, remarriage. I can say I have gone through all in a positive sense and am a better man for it.

In the last year, I am perhaps more spiritually lifted than I have been in quite some time. My sense of purpose has been opened to me. I am more loving than I have ever been, and I thank Jen for it. I have felt a kinship with the members of the family. I have also felt the occasional need to bite my tongue more. I am still debating if that is a “good thing” or not.

I have a feeling that the relative smoothness of the last year will continue. The wedding in October went off well. The subsequent “life together” has flown by with nary a problem. I have my health. I am resigned to the idea that every day is a gift and I have a purpose on this Earth.

As far as my popular culture moments, Batman has been a much better read than it has been in years. I am disappointed in how badly Daredevil’s Shadowland concluded. I was hoping for more from the Avengers, and I am confused by the book. Thor has been a fine read, and Captain America is good. DC-wise, other than the fore-mentioned Batman titles, Superman’s “walk across the US” series has been great, Blackest Night is dragging on much too long, Flash is horrid, and Green Lantern is dull at this point. Ok, I have proven I am still a geek.

Moving on in my annual birthday blog. Good Old Foggy is becoming just that—old. She is having difficulty eating kibbles and I am now feeding her soft food. She lost some weight as of late and her eyes are less clear. My fear is that her time is winding down. Chumley, speaking of losing weight, has lost none. He must be eating Foggy’s share. Guinness is Guinness and is as loving and annoying and neurotic as usual. We introduced Jen’s cat Babbett to the household and the transition has been fairly smooth. She and Guinness are liking one another, which is frankly the very last thing we expected. Both are relatively nuts, so it stands to reason, but I guess crazy loves company as much as misery.

The job is going well. The house is coming together. We have now transferred our attention to Jen’s house to make it ready to be sold in the spring.

I will close with a thought that I continue to live by. If every day you are here, you touch someone else’s life in a positive way, your life will continue to have meaning.
Here’s to another 47…