On the day after Christmas, we said goodbye to our feisty, fiery, lovable and cuddly 12-year-old orange tabby cat, Socks.
He wasn’t himself that week, and a late-night visit and admission to the emergency veterinary clinic in Rockford showed he had stones and crystals in his bladder and kidneys. Surgery was planned if his metabolic levels improved. However, after two days, they never did, and an early-morning call from one of the veterinarians confirmed it was time to say goodbye.
My wife and I went to the clinic and spent nearly two hours with Socks in the comfort room, where he was purring and happy. Finally, we summoned the vet, who came in, chatted with us for a minute, and gave him a sedative. She then pushed the final medicine, and he slipped away while we wept.
We adopted him and Monty, kitten brothers from another mother, 12 years ago from Winnebago County Animal Services. I was like countless men who go from "I don’t know if we can handle pets" to "Yes, I'm now a crazy cat dad." Socks, especially, converted me.
He was a paradox, an enigma, a riddle. He liked five people, truly: the four of us and my fabulous mother-in-law, who watched them both many times when we would travel.
Yet Socks was the sweetest cuddler, tucking himself into our laps for long naps. He was my work-from-home coworker, who would hop up on the desk: "Are you doing anything important? Can I sit here?"
He was my nighttime reading buddy, following me upstairs and sitting on my chest while I read.
While six weeks have passed and the pain has subsided, I still have a tough time looking at photos of him today without some tears. Our home has lost energy, and there are many reminders of his presence. It'll get better, I know.
It's often said that we don't find pets; they find us. Socks found us, for sure, and he left us better people.
I'm Wester Wuori, and that's my perspective.
Copy Edited by Eryn Lent
