It may be
the cat that got me into this mood. We’ve had Kitty for 16 years, ever since I
heard him yowling on the top of a wheel on a parked car outside. OK—moral
proximity: if a cat needs help outside your house, what can you do? So there we
were, lying on our stomachs on the sidewalk, peering under the car. And there
Kitty was, wisely deciding to retreat deep into the chassis of the car. After
all, did he know who we were?
The
solution was tuna fish, we realized, and it became clear: we were only going to
get one chance; this was one smart cat. Fortunately, we lured him into the
cage, and spirited him up to the apartment, where we put him into the one room
that actually has a door, the guest bathroom.
The kitten
at this point fit comfortably in Mr. Fernández’s hand—it was at that stage
where the ears were seemingly bigger than the head. And speaking of the ears,
there was a huge oil smear on the right ear; Mr. Fernández got to work on that
the next day.
Which I
found then, when I came upon Fernández sitting on the toilet, alternately
drying and kissing Kitty. “I like this cat,” he crooned, and that was it. True,
he was / is an orange cat, and none too beautiful. But that wasn’t the point;
probably because of the vitamins we shoveled down him, he’s a truly intelligent
cat.
(Sorry to
disabuse you here, but most cats? Stupid as posts, despite their appearance….)
Smart
enough, in fact, to break out of the guest bathroom after a few days. And how
did he do it, since the door was still closed? By climbing up and then down an
8-foot louvered door—it was the only way.
So there he
was, casually casing the place, completely unfazed be the three other adult
cats who were tailing him.
Over the
years, it became obvious—this was Raf’s cat, not mine. Kitty sleeps by Raf at
night, and stays sleeping on his pillow during the day. And at one point, Raf
had a dream in which Kitty was talking to him.
“Kitty, you
can talk!” exclaimed Raf.
“Of course
I can talk,” said Kitty irritably. It was sort of an Alice and Wonderland
moment….
Which last
Monday was not. That’s when I took Kitty in to the vet, since he hadn’t been
eating, and was looking lethargic. He knew, of course, what was coming the
moment his saw the red carrying case; characteristically, he offered no
complaint.
I knew,
too, what was going to happen. I knew it the moment I saw the vet palpating
Kitty’s lower abdomen.
“It’s
always the kidneys
in older cats,” said Jeanne over the weekend. At that point, Kitty had just
come home from five days in the hospital, getting IV fluids, and enduring the
constant barking of the neighboring dogs. And yes, he had cost us just under a
thousand bucks.
We had to
spend it, of course. But I can tell you now—we might as well have taken a vacation,
instead. Despite Raf’s optimism—based on the statement by the vet that Kitty
might last another two years—I don’t think this cat’s gonna be around long.
So he’s in
the back bedroom now—isolated so we can see if he urinates and give him the
diet he needs. And I puzzled this morning when I was feeding him, how strange
life worked. I had a job, I had an office, I had a place to be on Monday
mornings. And now? I was alone with an old, feeble cat—a cat we will one day
put in the red carrying case, and head weeping—as I am now—for the vet…
…one last
time.
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