stood up on his back like Mr. Burns.
“How are you feeling, The Bear?”
He let out a slow and quiet meow, and walked into the living room. He wavered when he walked, like he was unsteady, or uncomfortable, or both. When he was about fifteen feet away from me, he stopped, crouched down on the floor, and flicked his little stump.
“Felix will let you know if he’s ready to go…”
I got up from the table and walked over to him. I felt a lump rising in my throat as I got down next to him on the floor.
“Are you done?” I asked.
He flicked his stump and looked up at me. His eyes looked a little cloudy; his third eyelid was closed about a third of the way. He opened his mouth to meow at me, but no sound came out.
“Okay, Felix. Okay.” I scratched his little bony head. He purred weakly and tightly shut his eyes.
I knew this moment would come, and I hoped that I’d be prepared to face it, but I wasn’t. Huge sobs shook my body. Giant tears fell off my face and ran down my nose.
Ferris cautiously walked over to me from the kitchen. She stopped about three feet from me, sat down, and cocked her head to one side.
“Felix is dying, Ferris,” I said. “I’m okay. I’m just sad.”
She sighed and laid down on the floor with her head between her paws. She watched me while I sat there and cried.
Later that night, Anne and I had The Talk. We decided that we’d done all that we could to help him, but it just wasn’t enough. He wasn’t really living…he was just staying alive. We talked about the promise we’d made two years ago, to each other, and to Felix, that we wouldn’t keep him alive just because we didn’t want to say goodbye. I called the vet and had The Talk with her. We made an appointment to bring Felix in the next day.
I knew I was doing the right thing, but that didn’t make it any easier. As I wrote this (and it took most of the day to write—I had to stop writing several times, just to get a grip on myself) I realized that Felix hadn’t been The Bear for a long time.
As I wrote, I thought about how much I would miss him. I wrote in my blog, “I will miss seeing him stand up and stretch himself out on the trunk of Anne’s car before he jumps down onto the driveway and greets me when I open my car door. I will miss him jumping up into my car and talking to me while he walks around and explores the passenger compartment. I will miss watching him sit in the grass and torment the squirrel in the tree next door. I will miss watching him stump around in the backyard. But most of all, I will miss being on his rotation. Even when he decided that four in the morning was when he needed to go outside and the best way to accomplish that was to run across our heads until one of us woke up and let him out.”
Just after nine in the morning on March 30, 2005, we said goodbye to Felix The Bear. He left peacefully and quietly, surrounded by his staff who loved him.
In the days and weeks that followed his death, I kept looking for The Bear in the usual places (not because I thought he was still alive, but out of habit) and when he wasn’t there, the tears often came.
About a week after we said goodbye, his vet called.
“Mr. Wheaton?”
“That’s me,” I said. I don’t think I will ever get used to being called Mister anything.
“Felix’s ashes are here, and you can pick them up whenever you’d like.”
A sob rose out of my chest and caught in my throat. At that moment, I discovered that I had created a totally illogical construct in my mind where I somehow hoped that when we took him to the vet, we would trade the sick, sad, dying Felix for the healthy, tough, stumpy little Bear we used to know.
“Mr. Wheaton? Are you there?”
Felix really is gone. He really isn’t coming back , I thought.
I drew a breath to steady my voice. “Can I come and pick him up right now?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the vet’s office as
“How are you feeling, The Bear?”
He let out a slow and quiet meow, and walked into the living room. He wavered when he walked, like he was unsteady, or uncomfortable, or both. When he was about fifteen feet away from me, he stopped, crouched down on the floor, and flicked his little stump.
“Felix will let you know if he’s ready to go…”
I got up from the table and walked over to him. I felt a lump rising in my throat as I got down next to him on the floor.
“Are you done?” I asked.
He flicked his stump and looked up at me. His eyes looked a little cloudy; his third eyelid was closed about a third of the way. He opened his mouth to meow at me, but no sound came out.
“Okay, Felix. Okay.” I scratched his little bony head. He purred weakly and tightly shut his eyes.
I knew this moment would come, and I hoped that I’d be prepared to face it, but I wasn’t. Huge sobs shook my body. Giant tears fell off my face and ran down my nose.
Ferris cautiously walked over to me from the kitchen. She stopped about three feet from me, sat down, and cocked her head to one side.
“Felix is dying, Ferris,” I said. “I’m okay. I’m just sad.”
She sighed and laid down on the floor with her head between her paws. She watched me while I sat there and cried.
Later that night, Anne and I had The Talk. We decided that we’d done all that we could to help him, but it just wasn’t enough. He wasn’t really living…he was just staying alive. We talked about the promise we’d made two years ago, to each other, and to Felix, that we wouldn’t keep him alive just because we didn’t want to say goodbye. I called the vet and had The Talk with her. We made an appointment to bring Felix in the next day.
I knew I was doing the right thing, but that didn’t make it any easier. As I wrote this (and it took most of the day to write—I had to stop writing several times, just to get a grip on myself) I realized that Felix hadn’t been The Bear for a long time.
As I wrote, I thought about how much I would miss him. I wrote in my blog, “I will miss seeing him stand up and stretch himself out on the trunk of Anne’s car before he jumps down onto the driveway and greets me when I open my car door. I will miss him jumping up into my car and talking to me while he walks around and explores the passenger compartment. I will miss watching him sit in the grass and torment the squirrel in the tree next door. I will miss watching him stump around in the backyard. But most of all, I will miss being on his rotation. Even when he decided that four in the morning was when he needed to go outside and the best way to accomplish that was to run across our heads until one of us woke up and let him out.”
Just after nine in the morning on March 30, 2005, we said goodbye to Felix The Bear. He left peacefully and quietly, surrounded by his staff who loved him.
In the days and weeks that followed his death, I kept looking for The Bear in the usual places (not because I thought he was still alive, but out of habit) and when he wasn’t there, the tears often came.
About a week after we said goodbye, his vet called.
“Mr. Wheaton?”
“That’s me,” I said. I don’t think I will ever get used to being called Mister anything.
“Felix’s ashes are here, and you can pick them up whenever you’d like.”
A sob rose out of my chest and caught in my throat. At that moment, I discovered that I had created a totally illogical construct in my mind where I somehow hoped that when we took him to the vet, we would trade the sick, sad, dying Felix for the healthy, tough, stumpy little Bear we used to know.
“Mr. Wheaton? Are you there?”
Felix really is gone. He really isn’t coming back , I thought.
I drew a breath to steady my voice. “Can I come and pick him up right now?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the vet’s office as
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