Tony was my cat for about two weeks. I adopted him from the SPCA while I was in college, and was planning on moving into an apartment. The apartment thing fell through and my mom took him in, and the two of them bonded very tightly.
He was an abused cat before I got him, that much is obvious. He was about a year old, and totally freaked out by people walking near him in shoes. He was shy and nervous throughout his life, except with the people that he encountered regularly. When I first met him at the SPCA, he was so adamant about staying in his kennel, he tried to pull himself back into it. Once in my arms, he wrapped his paws around my forearm and buried his face in the crook of my elbow, and I was sold.
Mom tried to resist him, thinking I’d be taking him back. Within weeks, she told me that I’d have to find another cat and that Tony was now hers. I didn’t fight it — the bond between the two of them was obvious.
His health had been failing for awhile, and today, after a trip to the vet, my mom had to make the decision that every pet owner dreads doing. It was the right thing, the humane thing, and the most painful choice a person can make. She’s handling it a lot better than I did Mooch’s euthanizing, but she’s had time to see it coming.
He had a wonderful life after his rough start, and he was a well-loved member of the family.