Cat Man

Many years ago, when we first came to Florida, we were cat people. From the north we brought our cat, Rosie, a huge black cat with a few white markings and extra toes. Along with the box turtle and some small rodents we arrived at our new home here in Florida.

Eventually, Rosie died, having lived through orthodontia, small boys,  and many close scrapes with cars and critters. We buried him in the yard and I read the kids that wonderful Judith Viorst book, "The tenth good thing about Barney".  I mourned that cat who was the most beautiful creature with his long hair and swishy tail and willful personality.  Several months before Rosie's death my father died, much too young. It wasn't until Rosie's death that I could cry, really cry, and shake my fists at whatever god that was so unfair.

Sometimes our beloved pets give us permission to accept the inevitable and the unthinkable.

Last week we visited dear friends who live ten hours north of us in North Carolina. We had thought we would be going to help them deal with a recent knee surgery. We were up for helping out with the cooking and errands and needed household stuff.

The real agenda was the death of a beloved cat. This cat, one of two that live in their house, is a Siamese. He and his beautiful brother were adopted as kittens. From the start, one of the cats was clearly the one who cleaved on to the man. They were tight for so many years. Of course, the two cats were a pair, but this particular one was this man's special friend and delight. Nothing was too much to do for him.

Over the years when we visited our friends, we came to know these lovely cats, so different in personality.  This year we knew that the man's cat was in an end stage of renal failure. When we arrived this cat was looking beautiful as always but was not eating. The vet thought he was done for, no hope at all.  The vet gave the cat a shot of antibiotics and some fluids and sent him home to have a few last days. So for the whole visit this cat was seemingly o.k. He presided on out hosts' bed.

Sometimes I checked up on him and he seemed alert. But everyone knew that he was failing. Each night we hoped that he would just die peacefully. But, no, he was waiting with his man, his best friend, for the last crumbs of affection and life with the one he loved best. The man made an appointment at the vet for euthanasia. This was so hard. The man's wife was so tender, knowing how much this pet meant.

The night before the death of this amazing cat, we sat out on a porch looking out at the Blue Ridge Mountains lit by moonlight and the fading of the day. And we talked about our children and grandchildren in revealing ways we had never really spoken of before. We spoke of the tragedies of the deaths of children and young adults. But mostly, we heard stories about the wonders of being able to really enjoy every moment we had the privilege to be with them.

It was the last night for the wonderful cat to be alive. While we talked the cat was comfortably ensconced on the bed in the place his master slept. Seemed he was giving us all permission to speak our hearts.