Winter was at its most bitter--temperatures dipping well below zero--when Sparky and his sister arrived at the local animal shelter in late December 1994. Their story is here.

Although he was gray-and-white tabby and she a calico, it was obvious that they were littermates: the same age, the same snub noses, the same golden eyes, the same shaggy coats, even the same swirl of white down their faces. They were thin, dirty and infested with ear mites, but they tugged at my heart. So they came to live with us.

Sparky was a wonderful cat--playful and sweet-natured. Whatever hardships had been in his past didn't dim his outlook on life. He was a cheerful cat, always ready for some lap-sitting or playing. Although he was rather small, he had huge feet, with extra toes on all his paws--his own built-in snowshoes.

I remember how his coat shimmered in the sun when he ran across the yard. How he enjoyed his hours of exploring the woods around our house. I could trust him to stay close to the house, so I allowed him more freedom than our other cats got. I'm glad he had those sweet, summer days. He embraced life with such happy gusto that I didn't pay much attention to how quickly he tired. Maybe I should have been more concerned about how out-of-breath he got when he was excited, or how he would flop down to rest after a short chase. I don't think it would have made much difference in the long run.

It was December, 1998, when he stopped eating. One evening, he had been in the kitchen, begging chicken and eagerly wolfing it down--then the next morning, he had no interest in food at all. We took him to the veterinary clinic for testing, but nothing showed up. We tempted him with his favorites to no avail. It was as if he had suddenly lost interest in life--all he wanted to do was crawl off to a back room and sleep. After a few days of this, I asked for x-rays. That's when we found out.

Sparky was in congestive heart failure. His heart was enlarged; there was fluid in his chest. The prognosis wasn't good but the vet said that he might have another few months if he responded to the medications and we kept him quiet and unstressed.

But it wasn't to be.

Sparky weakened rapidly and nothing could stop his downward slide. He hated being force-fed and I hated doing it to him when he so obviously wanted to be left alone. The Lasix made him pee a lot and he was so weak that getting in and out of the litter box was a chore.

It happened so fast--within days, our young, vital cat was worn-out. In the end, all we could do was try to make him comfortable and let him know we loved him.

I held him as he died, giving his last defiant cry before he slipped away from us. It was just four days after he was diagnosed, and a week before Christmas.

He still lives vibrantly in our hearts--most especially when the days grow short and the snow lies deep around us. We remember Sparky and the happy days he had with us--for too brief a time--before he passed on.