We joked that he was never far from his dish. Even if he was out of sight, whenever there was the slightest hint that food was coming he would appear. His 'bowl attachment' was so strong he'd taken on a rather bowl-like shape himself. That was Thomas. We called him Fat Boy.
Who knows what adventures he'd had before he came to us? Cats don't tell stories. What we knew is that he'd settled here. We didn't find him, he found us. This was his chosen home...or so we'd thought.
I'd say it was about a month ago that things started to change with him. Maybe it was longer. But we really knew something was up when he sniffed at a snack and walked away. And then, one day, he walked away--from us.
We weren't sure what happened. We'd been his family of choice, maybe he'd changed his mind. We tried not to think about all the ugly possibilities and just hoped for his return. What else can you do? But it was an unsettled peace.
And then, just as we were getting used to his absence, he was present again. It was not long after Easter, and suddenly I was Mary Magdalene in the garden--and Thomas appeared to me. For a moment I couldn't believe my eyes, but there was no doubt. He really was back, and I could hardly wait to share the news.
Our joy at his return, however, was soon tempered by the realization that he was, indeed, different. A trip to the vet and a chunk of change didn't tell us much. Medicine and TLC seemed to help here and there, but his decline became inevitable.
Thomas died yesterday.
Before he died he taught me a lesson, though: it's going to be OK. There will be times when we think it's over but it's not--there's still more to come, perhaps the best part, or maybe the worst. There will be days when we don't want to venture far from the bowl, and that's alright. And one day it will be over, and that's going to be OK too. Even though our hearts are hurting, it's going to be OK.
Because he's home now, and the bowl's not far.
