Stanzi was always a tiny cat. Even at 6 months old, she was only 3.5 pounds. She had ghastly breath and meowed constantly and LOUDLY. Her purr could be heard across a room. She made sure her humans knew how much she loved them -- she gave of herself completely and without reservations. I often awoke to her biting my nose or trying to worm under my arm. But she had her quiet side, as well -- when I sat on the couch, I often found her sitting at my feet, sphinx-style, waiting for me to see her, and as often as she woke me up, I woke to find her fast asleep next to me.
FIP (or something similar) took Stanzi away from us. Until she began sniffling, there was nothing in the world to indicate any health issues, and once that began, it was only a week or so before she died. In the end, she died safe and warm, among those who loved her, and she got a clean death. We regret only that this tiny little cat never had a chance. As Calvin (of Calvin & Hobbes fame) once said, out there she's gone, but she's still inside me.
Last Update: February 22, 2009