RIP Steve Your Asshole Buddy

 This spring, I decided I was finally ready for a cat in the house again, five years after Guinevere died. She was in the neighborhood of 18-21 years old, depending on which estimate from the Humane Society I believed. I had her for 13 years.

It took me three visits to PAWS in the U District to find a cat who fit the bill: no major personalities issues, relatively friendly short hair. He loved being petted and skritched while I was there. So I adopted him.

Got him home. He immediately hid. After a month being moved around foster places and shelters, so I figured he might take a few days to get accustomed to my apartment. He never did. He pretty much only came out at night and when the Roomba vacuumed his hiding spot under the couch. He'd freak out a bit then, but would let me hold him and would calm down after about 15 minutes. But once I set him down he immediately went back to hiding.

I named him Steve Your Asshole Buddy because he yowled a lot at night.

I posted about him a few times to a private filter on Facebook, figuring once he got more comfortable I'd start posting pictures and whatnot more publicly.

That never happened. Thursday night he freaked out, came out from under the couch, but still wouldn't let me near him. Dragged his left hind leg, and had a bunch of other symptoms I don't want to go into because I don't want to write about an animal in distress.

Heather came over and helped me corral him into a carrier, then took me to an emergency vet. They diagnosed him with a heart condition and he died.

 

I'm a little sad this didn't work out, but I didn't have Steve long enough to hit me super hard.  I have a couple of trips coming up, so it doesn't make sense to adopt again until the traveling is done.  Soon though.