In September, shortly after I started my new job, we adopted our second cat. We named her BeeBee8, after the new Star Wars droid we already knew we loved. At first she was apprehensive of her new home, and her new feline brother. She hid under the bed, and she clearly missed her liter sisters.
Within a few weeks, she and Simon were best friends. They cuddled together, played together, ate together, and bathed each other. She was a perfect addition to our little family.
Less than two weeks after we got back from our honeymoon, four months after we adopted her, we took Bee to the vet for the last time.
Bee developed the wet version of FIP. We took her to the vet because she was acting tired and wouldn’t play with Simon. We thought she might have a cold, or maybe a hairball. We thought we would get her a prescription and our sweet, joyful girl would be back to normal in a few days. We never dreamed that it was the end of her life.
There is nothing that can be done for FIP. There are no signs of it until it’s almost the end. There are no tests. The vet told us that there was nothing we ever could have done, which is a small comfort. I’m glad that we didn’t contribute to her dying before her first birthday. I’m grateful we were able to make her short life a happy one.
But I’m still heartbroken that she’s gone. It’s been a month, a long hard month full of other sad and stressful things, but sometimes at night I’ll still wake up looking for her. I miss the way she would turn my ereader pages for me when I was too anxious to sleep. I miss the way she would watch over me when I could sleep. I miss her funny sounds and the way she had all three of us wrapped around her little paw.
The grief isn’t as fresh or painful as it was in those first days, but I know I’ll continue missing her for a long time. Goodbye sweet Bee. I hope the other side of the rainbow bridge is as wonderful as you are.