Goodbye, Nimbus

Back in 1996, my wife and I had been married only a year when we moved to the state we currently live in. We immediately went to the animal shelter and adopted a kitty cat, a loving, young, dark gray cat that looked like a little rain cloud. We named him Nimbus.

Two nights ago, after 11 years, our little rain cloud passed away, dying quietly at home.

Within a year of first bringing him home, Nimbus developed a case of irritable bowel syndrome. The vet prescribed him steroid pills, without which he would not be able to keep food down. I gave him a pill every night for 10 years. The steroids kept him alive, but they slowly poisoned him, too, until, a month or so ago, he had kidney failure and stopped making new blood cells. Dialysis wasn’t a reasonable option, so we knew the end was coming. I’m just happy he went without pain, at home, and didn’t have to be taken to the vet to be euthanized. He spared us that.

When we brought him home as a kitten, he was so thankful that he went back and forth between our laps, purring and being loved. He could jump incredibly high while chasing ribbons and strings, doing flips and jumping from a sitting position so high his paws would touch the top of a door. Then one day he landed wrong, hurting his leg. He hardly jumped again after that.

Nimbus was a big cat, comparatively, but very much a lap kitty, and would bug me for attention any time I was sitting, particularly if I wanted to read. And he was very soft. He would sleep by my head every night, whether I wanted him to or not. I’ll miss that.

Though we got three other housecats after Nimbus, Nimbus was like our first baby, through six years of infertility treatments, then the adoption of our two children.

He’s being cremated, and I imagine we’ll bury his ashes in the flower bed, near the bird feeder.

Goodbye, my Nimbus. We love you.