A Dear Friend
Sometime in the near future we will betray a dear friend. No amount of nonsense about a final kindness will change the fact that we will determine that the life of a cat will come to an end.
She first entered our life on Halloween night of 2001. As I passed candy out the door, this pathetic little waif raced in, clearly using her last bit of energy to chase the scent of cooking salmon. Had she not come through that door, I doubt she would have lived the night out, she was that starved.
We adopted her, made her an indoor cat, and I don’t think she ever considered leaving again. The house rules soon became clear. I was to meet her at the food dish first thing every morning. Once I fed her I would be allowed to make coffee and collect the morning paper, but I would not be given permission to read it until I had spent the correct amount of time petting her.
The final disease seems to be a tumor on or near her spine. She has lost the use of one leg and is rapidly losing the other leg. She has reached the point where she can no longer jump up on the bed or the couch. She needs one of us to lift her to her favorite spots. This must be a special indignity for her, for she was an incredible jumper.
A year after Bob Cat came in through that Halloween Door, we adopted a second cat, Frankie. We worried a little about how they would get along, but Bob thought Frankie was her kitten. They played together for hours. The favorite game was “Chase Me.” We live in a cavernous old house with four floors. I would sit in the living room and hear them start in the attic, dash down the upstairs hall, careen down the stairs, bang through the French doors into the living room and cascade down the cellar stairs into the back room. Several minutes later, the entire route would be reversed. Sometime around the second trip Big Cat would be in the lead with Frankie in hot pursuit. As they ran past the kitchen table, Big Cat, with no discernible effort, would leap onto the table while Frankie dashed by below. Now in the rear of the chase, Big Cat would give a gigantic leap and land on top of Frankie and the two would engage in the second great game, Bite My Neck.
Because their idea of a peaceful night meant rising at four in the morning and terrorizing each other, we quickly learned to lock them in the downstairs at night. This meant that when I came down in the morning, there would be two cats greeting me at the door demanding instant sustenance. Then one morning, I was greeted by only one cat, Frankie. Bob was missing. By the time I got to the kitchen, miracle of miracles, Bob had appeared. This happened the next morning as well. The third morning I was determined to see where Bob had been hiding. I looked under couches, tables, behind curtains and then I looked up on top of our entertainment center. Two large eyes were looking back. Now let me describe this set up to you. The entertainment center is seven and a half feet tall, leaving about 16 inches between it and the ceiling. Next to it is a triangular fish tank sitting on a pedestal. The closed top of the fish tank is 58 inches off the floor. Several days later I watched in amazement as Bob, again with no sign of effort, leaped to the top of the fish tank, and then to the top of the entertainment center. Effortlessly. Now she cannot lift herself 14 inches to a couch.
What I remember most, was when I had cancer and lost my mind at the same time. Two life forces expended all their energy to keep me from total surrender. One, my wife Kathryn deserves every credit and prize that can be offered.
But Bob was there also. She kneaded, licked, and rubbed me as if I were her sick child and her sheer will would save me. I was groomed, cuddled and comforted with every bit of her strength.
So now I will spend a little too much, and work a little too hard to keep her with us as long as she is comfortable. And in the end , well, if heaven exists, I will be greeted by several dogs and cats, and one of them will be making great effortless leaps.