valiant to the end

And so today we at our house end an era. Eighteen years ago someone threw into our Hampstead yard a five-week-old kitten. Jim loudly proclaimed he was allergic to cats. But I had prayed for one. And, oh, thank you, Saint Francis, look at my answer. A kitty that grew, and GREW, AND GREW. We soon learned that climbing the outside trellis was not exactly hazardous to his health but certainly taxing to mine. And so he came inside, never again to venture out into the green, green grass of our two homes.

An alarm clock that never needed winding, and could not be silenced without actually rising from my bed, whether I wanted to or not, and heading for the kitchen to put a fresh can of drek into a little blue bowl. He acknowledged no calendar, week days and week ends were all the same. For four years, he was the only thing during the week that made me speak aloud. Heck, if it hadn’t been for kitteh, I’d have had no conversation at all except for Sunday School and Church. In those days, when no one cared if I was alive or dead, much less bothered to even check on me, my precious little ball of purr gave me a reason to keep on keeping on. He kept me warm on winter nights as he cuddled next to me, a veritable miniature furnace. Three or four times each day he demanded I stop whatever I was doing and take care of his needs. “FEED ME, SEYMOUR” comes readily to mind. And each evening, if I dared be late to bed, he would (not so) gently nudge me in that direction.

When Jim came home from deployments and resumed lead dog status, Lucky was not exactly happy with having to move from pillow to bottom of the bed, but did so, grudgingly, only occasionally taking retribution with a nip on the toes of any unsuspecting foot. (That’s about the time he became known in my blog as Kitty The Terrible, or KTT for short.)

Anytime I came in the door, whether it was after five minutes of checking the mail, four hours of buying groceries, or three days of a trip to the Border, he acted as if I’d been gone two weeks. It was always walking with me, step by step, between my feet, anywhere I went; jumping into my arms whenever I sat down; anything he could do to affirm his devotion and command my complete attention. I guess that’s what I’ll miss the most, someone to say “hey, I’m glad you're back, where’ve you been?”

Damn but I hate this.

He never tore up anything in the house, but he did have a penchant for throwing up on any freshly-vacuumed rug. And I have the scars to prove how deeply claws can delve into flesh when the wheels of the office chair rolled over an unsuspecting tail. But on the whole, it was a mutually enjoyable experience. He because he got to rule the big house, me because I got to call him lil’ buddy.

Last night I put him up onto the bed next to me, and we sat in companionable silence for about an hour, me gently scratching his noggin, he laying barely breathing in his accustomed place at my left side. Every now and then, this no longer most vocal of cats would turn his head and look at me and utter just a tiny pitiful mew. I could only tell him things would be better in the morning. Finally, he stood, legs trembling with the Herculean effort, and asked to get down on the floor.

Water bowls placed conveniently all over the house went unnoticed the last 24 hours, litter box unused since Sunday, food and treat bowls untouched since Saturday. Yes, it was time. I had given him permission to go on whenever he saw fit, but he held back. Why, I don’t know.

Around 5:30 this morning Jim gently put him into the carrier, and closed but did not lock the door. Lucky stayed right there, never moving from the playroom turned sanctuary. Just before Jim walked out the door, I said, “Tell him goodbye.” Through tears he shed unashamedly, Jim said, “I don’t want to.” And then he hurried to the truck and joined the daily commute, secure in the knowledge that I would take care of things after he left. Just as I did with Bert, and two years later, Ernie. Somehow, it seems a lifetime ago.

Damn, I hate being the responsible adult.

Prince Valiant was not exactly a prince about his going, but he most definitely was valiant. Trust me, he did not go gently into that good night. It took both a doctor and a technician at VCA DeSoto to effect the result; but they are loving, and kind, and respectful of the will to live, and I knew from experience they were the ones to be trusted with the task.

I hope that when it is my time to go, someone will be as loving and kind and respectful of my wishes not to prolong the inevitable. To that end, I have exacted a promise from a friend to make it so, and have absolute and complete trust it will be as I desire.

Returning home, I put the empty carrier, two 25-lb boxes of litter, and two bags chock full of food and treats next to the garage door. (Jim will take it all to work tomorrow and give to a co-worker.) And then I vacuumed the floor, and laundered the sofa cover and bed scarf, removing all traces of kitty hair from the house. Emptied, for the last time, the big litter box with the filters on top, then put it out on the curb for someone in the neighborhood to take. Bagged up all his toys, his two combs, his three brushes, and placed it out of sight in the garage. Next to the bag of Ernie toys, still sitting mute witness to a love that does not die but simply moves from one plane to another. They may be gone from my physical presence, but there are indelible footprints on my heart.

I need to mow the lawn, but that mindless chore would only mean another hour to dwell in the past, and think of other days, happier times. We have no plans to add another little friend to our household this year, or any other year, for that matter, but I cannot, as yet, bear to give any of them away.

No, sweet friends, do not even suggest it. There can be no replacement. I will take time to grieve, for, indeed, that is my right. If counseling has taught me anything at all it is that it’s ok to be wherever I’m at whenever I’m there. And that times like these are never gotten over, but simply gotten through.

After I returned from Ernie’s transition, I blogged “Stop All The Clocks.” Today, lines learned (can it be?) fifty years ago in high school English Lit classes come to mind, just as the late Miss Ann Moon and the late Mrs. Leona Skelton told me they would. And so I place them here, as epitaph to my now departed fine furry feline friend.

“Now cracks a noble heart – good night, Sweet Prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2