remembering a perfect cat

[joshua0]

Three months ago — May 27th — we said goodbye to Scooter, my cat of 16 years. It was, probably, the hardest transition of my life, and that is saying something, for I was the only one standing in the room at my father’s bedside at the moment he began to make the leap from this world to the next. But how hard it was makes sense, in some ways: I knew Scooter longer than I knew Dad. Scooter was a perfect cat, and he taught me a lot.

* * *

Scooter’s health had been deteriorating slowly for a year or two — I liked to joke that ever since he turned 14 or 15 or so, he was in the “expensive” phase of a cat’s life — but the last few months had really gone downhill. He went back and forth on the edge of what we would call good enough quality life for him. I fought with this at length: he was, at his core, his most loving self right up until his last minute, even when he was visibly uncomfortable. It didn’t change his personality at all. When he peed someplace he wasn’t supposed to, he was apologetic about it. He slept on my bed, night after night. Even when he wasn’t all that hungry, he would wake up and jump down from my bed with a chirp when I came home from work, and we’d have a short (two-sided!) conversation of meows as he thump-thump-thumped his way down the stairs and herded me into the kitchen.

It didn’t make the decision any easier.

* * *

* * *

The thing about remembering people is that you have to whitewash their memories a little bit. I miss Dad, but I can remember how difficult he could be. But the problem with remembering kitties, of course, is that they never did anything wrong — in fact, they were incapable of doing anything wrong, really. Kitties are perfect beings in every way. When Scooter inappropriately eliminated (that’s vet for “peed on the rug”), it wasn’t his fault. When he yelled in the middle of the night because he had forgotten that everyone went to bed, it wasn’t his fault, either. And, of course, when he, as a little kitten, went to drink from the toilet and fell in, it was completely intentional and just for our benefit. Kitties are completely perfect beings, and that’s why we love them.

I thought a lot about this, and how imperfect Dad was. When Scooter’s health took the first of its major downturns in March or so of last year, I was in on the precipice of what was going to be a painful and agonizing breakup. It felt like I was staring down loss in all directions. I contrasted it with how imperfect my girlfriend-at-the-time seemed, and how flawed I seemed too. There was a lot of hurt going on in all different directions.

Could you imagine if kitties were imperfect? Worse, could you imagine if people were perfect? If there were no depth to our character, no flaws and warts to make us who we are and to add some shading and vibrancy to us? Kitties are perfect, and that’s why we love them … but people are imperfect, and maybe that’s why we love them, too.

* * *

* * *

Scooter and I had bonded over sixteen years together (we got him when he was about a year old, we think). He wasn’t always a lap cat, but by his old age, he sure was. He was too big to really be a lap cat, even after his weight started to drop, but that didn’t really bother him. When I was working at my desk, he would come over to the chair, stand up and put his paws up on the arm of the chair, and yell until I reached over and hauled him up into my lap. Back when I was still meditating frequently, he took every opportunity to join me: if he was upstairs when I went to sit, he’d hear my breathing patterns change, and come running over to sit at my feet.

One of the things that I find the most shocking is the way that he unconditionally loved and trusted me. Near the end of his life, I’d need to medicate him in ways he didn’t love. I frequently gave him subcutaneous fluids — pinning him down and sticking him with a thick needle, and then putting an uncomfortable amount of liquid right beneath his skin. Then, I’d have to pinch him to let the skin heal up, lest we have a cat walking around leaking all the fluids right back out. This was not an enjoyable procedure for him.

Minutes later, he would be in my lap, purring just the same.

Who are we to deserve such a thing? Who am I to deserve such a thing?

Maybe if he could be a beacon of love that way, some day I could too.

* * *

I was going to write about what the exact process of his downfall was. It’s not material, really. He had something or other going on with his thyroid, and something or other else going on with his GI system (a lump that had been there for a few years), and something or other else else going on with his urinary system. It’s not all that informative, and anyway, it’s not really how I want to remember him.

A year or two ago, Jeff was working at the desk, and Scooter was rummaging about under the desk in some boxes, just making a total ruckus, crinkling and uncrinkling paper. This went on for some minutes, before Jeff finally wheeled back from the desk and asked the question, in an exasperated tone: “Scooter, what are you doing???”

Scooter turned around. He thought about the question for a few seconds. He looked up at Jeff, and answered, with just the same degree of exasperation as was in the question: “Meow!!!”

I’ll miss you, little buddy.

* * *