In The Pipeline:

Nine Christmases ago, we found a package from Santa near the tree: a cat. Not a kitten, but a full-grown, full-bodied snowshoe.

The kids were delighted — they’d never had a dog or cat. My wife was thrilled. Me, I’m not a cat person, so I was happy for everyone else. As I soon learned though, this was no ordinary cat.

Veronica, as we named her, was not selfishly aloof, as many cats get stereotyped — she was an elegant, affectionate animal who in no time flat decided that my office would be where she’d spend her days.

As I wrote at my computer, she’d ascend into my lap to sleep, or sometimes pat on the keys with her paws. She reminded me of the “all work and no play” adage, coaxing me to the floor to tease her with her stuffed fish or a piece of yarn. Veronica became the best pet I have ever known, and I’ve had some good ones. Four years ago, when our adopted puppy entered the picture, Veronica wasn’t too happy — but over time, they formed a fragile bond.

As she got older, Veronica came downstairs less, claiming an upstairs alcove as her space and eventually, our bed — which was fine. In the last year or so, she played less — she was almost 17, after all — but was still this noble, seemingly wise creature whose purrs were so deep and steady that you couldn’t help but wonder what she was thinking about.

This holiday season, Veronica’s health started to seriously falter. She was losing weight and slowing down. Her purrs became a wheeze, and she became very weak. We took her to the Animal Hospital of Huntington Beach. The doctor took X-rays, then told us that cancer was consuming her, suffocating her, and that her life, most likely, could not even be measured in days. We all sat there, numb.

I think we all knew in the bottom of our hearts (and the pits of our stomachs) what the most humane decision was. Still, this was Veronica — how could this be the end? We’d never had to put an animal down before, but as a family, we accepted the hard reality.

I don’t equate animals with humans, and I have lost people very close to me. But I’d also forgotten what it is like when a family pet becomes family, as Veronica certainly had. Weeping over her, we remembered the day we got her, and the instant joy she brought to our house. As the kids held her, those beautiful purrs came back once more, fleetingly, as if to force a last goodbye. We wept. We apologized. We prayed over her. We said goodbye.

The kids, trembling, spent a last quiet moment with her, then left the room. My wife and I stayed for the procedure, but as they prepared to fix the needle into the catheter affixed to her paw, in those last seconds, the memories flooded forth: seeing her with the kids as they grew; welcoming us home from vacations with long, emotional meows; warming by the fire as she got older; sleeping on my orange sweat shirt in the cardboard box in my office; patiently letting my wife bathe her in the kitchen sink; coming home from her “spa treatment” with a big pink bow on her collar — and this final day, where, all of a sudden, she seemed to be calling for help. In just a few seconds, she was lifeless on the table. She was gone. Just like that. Our beautiful Veronica.

She will always be part of our family — a most special Christmas package that blessed our household for nine splendid years. Goodbye, Veronica. We’ll always miss you. We’ll always love you.

I should mention how compassionate and professional the staff at the Animal Hospital of Huntington Beach were — exceptional people, one and all.

While there, our kids had some extra, unexpected help coping with our loss. In the waiting area, they became distracted by a mini-warrior named Nigel, an abandoned kitten, just a couple of months old, who’d been dumped at a local shelter — with a Mohawk shaved so deep into his fur, they told us you could see the razor marks.

As we all hugged, Nigel’s feisty little swipes from his cage provided just the distraction the kids needed in that moment. Then they held him, he purred, and that little critter seemed to do the impossible — he made them feel a little better.

My wife and I thought that maybe fate was having its way, placing him in our path. I know it’s not wise to replace pets as a knee-jerk response, but this would be no replacement — this was an abandoned, abused baby animal that needed a home. Without telling the kids, Jean and I conspired.

As I type this, I can hear his little bell as he bounces around our bedroom, exploring his new home. Whether we discovered a needy animal or an animal discovered a needy us, I don’t know. But I’m thankful he’s here, and I’m especially thankful for that Christmas morning nine years ago, when our lives changed for the better all because of a cat named Veronica.

As you all reflect, rejoice and celebrate your loved ones both here and gone — to all of you (family pets included), merry Christmas from the Eptings: myself, Jean, Charlie, Claire and my mom, Louise.

To visit the Animal Hospital of Huntington Beach, go to www.ahhb.net.

And in what’s become a bit of a tradition, this is the Christmas poem our daughter, Claire, wrote three years ago for this column.

What happened this night was so much to behold,

Out here in the shivering cold.

To see what I saw,

To have known what I know,

To hear what I heard,

Is greater than gold.

Star light, star bright, an angel appeared,

In God’s glory there was so much to be feared.

But the angel said, “Do not be afraid,

For Mary, the lowly handmaid,

Is to bear a son who shall save us all.

So go there to see the Lord,

Follow the star that is ever so tall.”

So we headed forth to see what is to see,

All amazed at what the angel had told us what He is to be.

There at the manger, to my surprise,

The baby was there, I couldn’t believe my eyes!

And then I felt a feeling so strong!

And I knew that He was Jesus Christ, the Messiah,

whom we had been waiting for ever so long!

So what happened that night, that glorious sight,

Is what I will always believe,

And that is just what happened on Christmas Eve.

CHRIS EPTING is the author of 14 books, including the new “Huntington Beach Then & Now.” You can write him at chris@chrisepting.com .