David McKee

Jennifer & I just said goodbye to a faithful friend of 13 years, Shadow. A slim, sleek Norwegian Forest Cat, she came into my life on a fine autumn afternoon in 1996. I was still recovering from a broken engagement and, while taking a walk, came across a yard sale being conducted by a woman who was moving to Brazil. There, up for sale, was a beautiful blue-gray cat who was the spitting image of Buddy, my ex-fiancée's adorable Norwegian (who I missed far more than I did my ex).

As it turned out, Shadow also had an obstreperous brother, Bit (later promoted to Mr. Bit). Although I was only looking for one cat, I didn't have the heart to break brother and sister up, and took both. Shadow was well named, as she was invisible in darkness — causing her to get tripped over and stepped on far more times than I'd care to admit — and had the alarming habit of diving at your feet, an accident waiting to happen.

Unlike her brother, Shadow took to her new living situation at once. The only problem was the resultant friction between senior cat Fasolt and Shadow, which would never be resolved. They'd spend the next 13 years spatting. A couple of years after Shadow and Mr. Bit joined our family, job prospects in Minneapolis had dried up but multiple opportunities presented themselves in Las Vegas. So, in January 1999, my brother Vincent drove Shadow and Mr. Bit cross-country, while I flew Fasolt to Las Vegas. The climate seemed to agree with them — to say nothing of the profusion of juicy birds who dwelt nearby. Mr. Bit did, however, take several days to emerge from his hiding place in the kitchen cupboard.

Fast-forward a decade, and Shadow was showing signs of decrepitude and weight loss. (She was always lighter than air, but still … ) Her movements became stiffer, her lethargy more pronounced and she became reclusive. At first, I chalked this up to advancing age but eventually, she gave up on using the litter box, too. A number of medical tests failed to detect anything wrong.

As late as last Tuesday, Shadow was running about the apartment, having an episode of the 'nighttime crazies.' But, by Friday her belly was alarmingly bloated while the rest of her was emaciated and rail-thin. A visit to the vet brought the dreaded news: Shadow had a buildup of fluid in her abdomen and, beneath that, a tumor. Even a best-case scenario involving surgery and chemotherapy would only buy her a few more months on Earth. She was whimpering from the pain and the spark of her personality was all but extinguished.

We said our farewells as the last moments of Shadow's life ebbed away. Many tears were shed. Her body is gone, soon to be cremated, but her spirit will live in our hearts and minds and souls forever, for she is part of us in a way that death cannot sunder. Still … I will miss feeling her sleeping across my feet or knees when I'm sick in bed … chasing the dot of the laser pointer … sliding across the linoleum in pursuit of a runaway twist-tie … yelling at me when her dinner wasn't promptly served … sulking if her water did not have ice cubes in it, per her preference … dipping her right paw in aforesaid water and licking it off (making the water dirty for everyone else, but little did she care) … burrowing her forehead into my wrist as though to say "Thank you," when dinner was served … reclining regally in the nearest patch of sun … and, perhaps most of all, "helping" her Daddy work by curling up in his lap at the computer desk.

At least once, I came back to find her sitting on the keyboard, as though to say, "No more Internet, Dad!"

Thanks for reminding me of what is important, Shadow. We will never stop missing you.

Goliath sneaks up on erstwhile housemate Piglet.

After a week of foster parenting, we were able to find a good, loving home for Goliath (although it near to broke our hearts to see him go). His new family is set to spoil him rotten and looked like kids on Christmas morning when they finally saw his bandit-masked face. They'd already bought a "kitty condo" and toys for him, and word is that he's become comfortably ensconced in his new abode in nothing flat. The only adjustment problem may be that Goliath's idea of "playtime" is 2 a.m., something with which mere humans may have difficulty coping.

(According to our blogging software, this is officially the 1,500th S&G posting. Who'da thunk it'd ever go the distance?)