She did what every friend should do: tell me the truth that
I needed, but didn’t want, to hear.
“Why are you going to do that to that cat,” said Lady, after
I had sobbed out the information that the vet would take a blood sample, which
would reveal that Kitty, our eighteen-year old cat, was in renal failure. Then
what would happen? They’d have to give him intravenous fluids, and keep him
overnight or, more likely, overnights
while he huddled in a cage in fear of the dogs barking nearby.
“Let him stay at home, in peace,” said Lady. “Celebrate his
life, and let him die in your bed.”
Has anyone ever explained why—even though we are completely
resistant to it—we recognize that someone has just told us the truth? It’s one
of those things, like sensing that someone is looking at you from behind. At
any rate, I knew: I wasn’t going to take that cat to the vet.
Nor was I going to stop sobbing, so it was time to go home
and look for Kitty where he should have been but wasn’t. So then I sat
down—after more sobbing—and thought: how do I tell Raf? For Raf has been
dreading the day, the day we all knew would come.
“I have a fucking post-doctoral in grief, and it’s fucking
not fair,” I was wailing to myself, while I girded myself to call Raf at work.
And Raf, unfortunately, cannot do what I do, which is wail, let it out, feel
better, eat something, and go stoically on. “And I could do it for my mother,
dammit, and fight the medical establishment and let her die peacefully at home,
but I could do it because she asked. But what do I do about a cat who can’t
speak?”
Or was he?
Because I had drifted through the house, and was he anywhere
he normally is? No, which meant that he had found a corner, solace under a
couch or behind a chair. So taking him to the vet? Couldn’t do it…
Then it occurred to me—hiding is how cats tell you they want
to die. When all is well, a cat will be on the chair or sofa or rug that he has
decided is his. But when a cat decides to die? They go someplace quiet,
sheltered, alone.
And so he had told me, and did I have the energy, after so
much worry and weeping, to go all through a very large house, looking for the
cranny he had chosen? And though old, Kitty can move with surprising speed.
He also knows perfectly well when the hand stretched out to
him is offering a caress or an impending grab. Nor does he—like the other
cats—need to see the cat carrier to know that a trip to the vet is imminent.
And so I called Raf, and told him what Lady had said: he was
sad, but he agreed. And then I called my brother, since….well, somebody
in the family had to know. And in a way—though only the smallest way—he was
responsible for Kitty’s being with us.
John and Jeanne and their son, Tyler, had visited us shortly
after Kitty arrived, and I had announced to Raf that Kitty’s stay in the house
was completely transitional: the cat was on strict probation. It was utterly
impossible to assure continued residence of the cat until all of the
paperwork had been completed. I then went on to invent increasingly ridiculous
roadblocks.
“The alleged cat has failed to comply with a Friday, four
PM, deadline providing his certification as a mouse catcher grade three or
above,” I would tell Raf.
“How can we grant residency if the alleged cat has failed to
apply in writing for a temporary evaluation period, during which time his
skills and talents as an entry level cat can be assessed?”
“The alleged cat has refused to sign even the
acknowledgement of receipt of The Cat Handbook: Rules and Regulations
Guiding Feline Behavior which was provided to him immediately after his
provisional entrance into this domicile.”
Raf, of course, had paid utterly no attention to all this;
John, a lawyer, would furl his brow, look grave, and murmur, “hmmmmm.” And so
it went on, a standing joke between Raf and me, when Tyler, with the
impetuosity of an 8-year old, decided to force the issue.
“Let’s vote!” he cried, “All those in favor of rejecting
Kitty’s residency request raise your right hand!”
My hand shot up; significantly, John raised his as well.
“John,” said Jeanne, horrified, “how could you?”
“Just felt it was the right thing to do,” said John.
“Who cares!” cried Tyler, “raise your hand, everyone who
wants Kitty to stay! It’s three against two! Kitty wins!”
“Just a moment,” I told him, “may I see some legal
identification establishing your majority of age?”
So it was disputed—officially—though somehow Kitty eluded
the long arms of the immigration authorities for years. Until yesterday, when
Raf came home, and said, almost in tears, that he felt incredibly guilty: two
days ago, when Raf was cooking, Kitty came into the kitchen and yowled for
food.
Look, even if you love them, there is nothing more grating
than a cat begging for food. So what had Raf done? Screamed at him.
“So now he’s upset with me, and refusing to eat,” said Raf.
And you think a cat would stage a hunger strike in protest? You little know
cats.
I took my sore eyes—remember all that crying?—off to play
Rummikub, after telling the iPad that look, it had been a lousy day, but do you
think it let me win? So I was more than annoyed when Mr. Fernández called me,
since he always interrupts me when I’m playing Rummikub, and it’s
usually for some stupid question like, “have you seen the refrigerator?”
What was it?
Kitty and Raf in bed, and Raf was beaming and Kitty was…
…eating.
