No one really knew how old Flower was, or what his real name was. Heather, my sister, dubbed him "Flower" because of his sweet face. He was a wanderer who had other "real owners" who had micro-chipped him, but he always found his way to my sister's back garden and chose to spend most of his time there with her. He hunted, he slept. He spent four or five years working his way into my sister's life to make sure she was okay. He had adopted her and had plans for her. He had a schedule and he kept her to it and took care of her in that way. He was able to be with her through thick and thin, loyal and loving, never deserting her. Flower was a good cat.
No one really knew how old he was, not even his "real owners." Last week, my sister noticed he was limping and obviously in pain. When she contacted the owners of record through the microchip, there was no number left to let them know their cat was sick. So, Flower and my sister faced the vet together and found out he had bone cancer, and had probably had it, and been in pain, for quite a while, but was just now showing signs of being in pain. She went home with pain killers and options and started to think about how to deal with this. It's tough when our four-footed friends are ill. They can't really tell us what they want, so we have to figure it out as best we can on our own.
Saturday morning, she found blood in his urine. Saturday afternoon at the vet's they advised that it was time for Flower to go and my sister had to make that tough decision many friends of the animalkind need to face, putting them to sleep.
Flower will be missed — is missed — and I hope he's hunting and sleeping in Bastet's Fields and no longer feeling the pain he had probably been in for so long.
So, to Flower, who was a good cat and a good friend to my very dear sister.