We never did get to hear him say “hellow.”

But Sweetie‘s voice will echo far beyond goodbye.

It would not be quite accurate to say that Sweetie was “quiet.” Sweetie was the sound of confectioner’s sugar falling on your favorite cookie. Sweetie was the voice of the grey dandelion in the wind, all full of wishes. Sweetie was the music of the altostratus cloud, a blue-grey stillness that fills the entire sky.

We never heard a word from his mouth, yet Sweetie spoke.

Sweetie’s rescuer, the woman we call Light, tells us that Sweetie said “hellow” to her. In his first days off the street, astounded to be warm, he greeted his hero and his life. He had never expected to have either. Dreaming is dangerous. Dream, and you may drown in disappointment.

And who was Sweetie to dream? He was a stray beneath the cloud cover, nameless as the mist. He was infected with feline leukemia virus (FeLV), a disease that scares nearly everyone under the sky.

But Light said “yes,” so Sweetie said, “hellow.”

Then Tabby’s Place said “yes,” and Sweetie went silent. We never heard him say “hellow.”

But still waters run sweet, and the grey tabby found his voice outside the sound and fury. Let other cats and humans holler for attention. “Hellow” is the start of a conversation. Sweetie was the soul and story, the guest so compelling you run out of coffee.

On his sugar-cookie feet, he found his way around the cozy cubbies and sun-baked solarium. He did not need to make a case for himself. He did not need to apologize for his diagnosis or overcome his (extreme) introversion.

He needed only to be Sweetie, the cat whose name told his truth. We could not hug him, but we could treasure him, just the way he was. The staccato notes of survival gave way to the rest of ease.

There are times when words would only muddle the poetry of quiet. What can you say when you realize you have been dreaming all along, but you did not know it until it came true? Sweetie spoke fluent awe and eloquent slow-blinks. He adored volunteers who shared the umbrella of his silence. He was enchanted by Oram, in every way his opposite. He was speechless at the sight of dreams that followed him into the day.

Were it in our power, Sweetie’s days would have stretched on. Cats can live to a glorious old age with feline leukemia virus. But the disease is impossible to predict. The only thing more dangerous than dreaming is loving.

In the end, loving Sweetie meant speaking softly.

We never chased him for a hug, but goodness and mercy followed him all of the days of his life. As end-stage leukemia took hold, our staff hallowed Sweetie with the richest treats and stinkiest fishes. The only sound in the room was his sandpaper tongue, a whoosh-whoosh of thank-yous.

When strength and appetite finally gave way, Sweetie’s voice rang clear. It was time for love to release him to the dream that never ends. It was time to say “goodbye,” for now.

Yet just as Light saw the “Sweetie” in the stray, we know Sweetie’s song has not come to an end. We cannot see him through the cloud cover. But the day will come when every farewell is retracted, and “hello” has the last word.

There will be no feline leukemia virus there, no hunger or fear. It will be Tabby’s Place’s own dream come true, and we will never again need to say the words “Forever Loved.”

Until that day, Sweetie’s voice is still heard. Every time we welcome a cat with FeLV, we will hear Sweetie welcoming them, too: “hellow!” Every time we meet an angel like Light, Sweetie will be just over our shoulder: “hellow!”

Every time we take care of someone smaller than ourselves, and love them just the way they are, Sweetie’s voice will fill our own: “hellow, hellow, hellow.”

Until we meet again, thank you for being our beloved boy, Sweetie.

Reflections from just a few of Sweetie’s many admirers:

Grace, staff: “I always loved and appreciated Sweetie from afar. …seeing how much he loved his feline roommates, and the occasional glimpse of him exploring in the daylight, warmed my heart. I’m gonna miss searching for his little face during rounds,and the little (or big) hisses I’d get as a reward for winning that game of hide and seek.”

Gail, staff: “Sweetie may not have liked us much (or at all) but he always held a special place in my heart. After all his time spent hiding whenever people were in the building, it was so rewarding to finally get to see him playing with his buddies in the late afternoons and evenings. He really was such a wonderful boy, and I hope he knew how loved he was, and how missed he will be.”

Kitty LeFey, volunteer: “I hardly know what to say about Sweetie. Most of our relationship was based on potential, goals, and incremental growth in trust. It breaks my heart that I’ll never get to tickle his toe beans. Yet, my heart is healed by the loving care he received from us all, especially our miraculous medical team, right up until the end. Missing that face forever.”

More Blog Posts