I didn’t know what fading kitten syndrome was until this morning.
My mother had been up with Creeggan, petting him and coaxing him to eat or drink. He rallied. He fought. We pleaded. But in the end, he slipped away into eternal sleep.
He would sit on my feet. He would come when I called him, scamper over to me, perch atop my foot. He’d look at me and meow. He was talkative. He was adventurous. He was dapper.
But when he wasn’t running and playing, he would fade in and out, and in the end it was too much for him.
I named him after the Brothers Creeggan. For several years I had said that if I ever had a tuxedo cat, his name would be Creeggan. When Creeggan walked up to me, I knew it was him. He was the one.
Creeggan, I don’t know what happens to animals when they leave this earth. I know what I hope and what I like to think. But most importantly, I know that your short life was a gift, and that you were a glorious creation. And I loved you.