Sad news on Springtree Road. My cat Wylie, who just turned 18 last week, had kidney failure. We didn't know about it until it was too late. I have so much I'd like to say about my sweet Wylie cat, but the words are floating about my head today while I lie in a puddle on the floor.
When I got Wylie, he was a 5-week-old puff of a kitten who fit in one hand. He was in love with me from the start and I with him.
A half-Persian with all the neuroses that come with the breed, he was always my favorite. (Don't tell Grace, though.) He was a fine young cat. Here he is when we lived in Knoxville, after I got my new camera - my best pictures.
He rarely sat still for a picture and he was dark gray, so he was very difficult to photograph well.
But I got a few good ones. This look is so him. :)
Wylie. Wyles, Sir Wyles of Ashencoat, W, Buddy, my middle child.
He always looked at me with those loving eyes and gave me that loud purr he had. He was my buddy. When I was sick, he slept at my back. When I cried, he purred me to comfort. He never raised a paw to V, even though she stressed him out as often as she was able. I'm better for having known him.
Here he is in the new house, at the beginning of April.
I'm glad he got to live here in this house with us, even though it was just a short time. I can see now from these photos that he didn't feel well. I didn't recognize it at the time. Even if I'd realized, the outcome would've been the same.
And things change again.