×

Loss of a pet

Of all the lives that pass through ours, some are destined to carve themselves into our hearts.  Ollie invaded mine the first day I met him.  He was six weeks old.

I don’t know how the Humane Society makes introductions today, but seventeen years ago they allowed me to spend half an afternoon in their Cat Room.

The dozens of cages were stacked up on three walls in the small room, revealing cats of every size – from mewling black kittens to a fluffy, vanilla buster who eyed me warily from a top cage.  Many furry faces pressed toward the openings while others slept.  I was so overwhelmed at the amount and variety of them that I finally decided the only way to make any progress was to proceed row by row although I didn’t open every cage.  I was looking for a kitty that might be both interesting and interested in me.  Why I thought it had to be an instant bonding I have no idea, but I continued through the rows . . . too big, too aggressive, too limp, too fidgety.  I was getting discouraged but at the same time wishing I could take all of them.

And then I came upon a cage with two little grey and black long-hairs.  One ogled me from a back corner, but its sibling sat politely with its two front paws neatly together, almost at attention.  I noticed little tufts of black fur sticking out from between its toes.  I bent down to check it out more closely and it cocked its head, looked at me steadily, not moving.  I picked up the kitten up and cradled it like a baby, which at six weeks, it very much was.

The sign on the cage said Elsa and Inga.  Aha – a girl kitty.  Her huge tale swept lazily back and forth when I leaned in to say, “How pretty you are.”   As I stared into her emerald eyes, she reached up with a paw, laid it on my cheek and left it there.  That was it.  I was hooked.

I carried her out to the desk and told them that Elsa or Inga had found a home.   After they assured me that her name was only temporary, I named her Chloe on the spot.  We filled out some paper work and took her home for a familiarization overnight.  She would have to return for the obligatory “fix.”

I stopped at my mother’s house with the tiny bundle of long fur.  Chloe sat “at attention” on the carpet as she had in her cage and my cat-hating mother declared her the cutest thing she’d ever seen.   Chloe lay down and curled up – partly on Mom’s foot.

I filled out the adoption papers and paid the vet’s bill when I dropped her off the next day.  A few hours later I received a phone call from the veterinarian’s office stating that Chloe was, indeed, a boy.  And did I still want him?  It seemed that the male kitten’s assets were hidden by the enormous amount of long fur .  . . or that his assets didn’t amount to much.  I was too smitten to reconsider, knowing that an endearing personality like his couldn’t be replaced.

Oliver came home with me the next day.

It was one of the best decisions I ever made.  For the past seventeen years, Ollie has been a consistent joy in my life.  When life’s upsets or frustrations threatened to get me down, I just took a dose of Ollie.  Morning or evening, Ollie could be found reliably in my lap dispensing attention, contentment, devotion.   He saw me through the loss of my husband then bonded later with Dear Richard who came to adore him almost as much as I.

Ollie asked for almost nothing except he was adamant that his breakfast be our first order of business each morning.  After that it was, “Do with me what you will.”  I mostly just loved him.

I think Ollie thought he was a dog because he certainly responded like one.  He walked with me through the house, came when I called him, got up and down on command.  He did not however fetch my slippers – perhaps his only failing.  Unlike a dog though, he would stay in my arms for hours, sometimes even being carried upside down, stretching out and enjoying the ride.

Nothing really bothered him or upset him.  I only heard him hiss once and it was at my son’s rambunctious Yellow Lab, Walter.  Poor 100-pound puppy just wanted to play and when he couldn’t convince eleven-pound Ollie with barks he started jumping up and down.  “C’mon, c’mon, let’s play.”  Disgusted, Ollie hissed at him, and left.

2016 was a tough year for us.  As my mother’s life ebbed away this past fall, Ollie too began to fail.  He’d lost some weight which the vet attributed to old age.  But soon after Mom passed we learned that Ollie had an intestinal cancer.  He’d been sick off and on leaving large vomit puddles resembling Rorschach tests.  And he spent more time in my lap, seeking solace I think.  Now when he sat at attention, he just stared at the floor.

Vet visits, medicine and steroid shots only slowed his weight loss.  He tried valiantly to be himself over the holidays but by New Years he was down to five pounds.  He didn’t curl up in my lap as much as just lie there.  His spine had become a picket fence, his fur separating over it as he walked.  His thick ruff was gone exposing a scrawny neck while his once proud tail swayed oh, so slowly.

We knew it was only a matter of time.  On Friday Ollie didn’t eat and that night he disappeared.  I found him on a guest bed upstairs.  I lay down beside him, our faces close, and he looked at me, his pupils huge but sad.  As we stared deeply at each other, I tried to memorize his face, the beige fur swirling around his nose, the spacing of the stripes on his forehead.   I thought back to that first day in the Cat Room, wondering also what he was thinking as he lay unmoving.   Was he replaying our romps around the kitchen, our quiet times, our good morning kisses?

And then he reached across the few inches between us and lay his paw on my cheek. I sobbed.

With full and broken hearts we had him put down the next morning.  Wrapped in a blanket in my arms Ollie leaned into me in the car.  I tried to absorb his body warmth.  I softly stroked the soft pads of his paws, intimately knowing every inch of his familiar body, now just fur and bones.

In the treatment room we laid him on a blanket printed with paw prints – and he didn’t move.  As we waited for the vet and assistant I stroked his velvet ears between my fingers and for the first time ever, he didn’t purr.

We waited until they gave him the sedative.  While the women were thoughtfully compassionate, I couldn’t stay for the final dosing.  Shattered, I kissed him goodbye and we shared a last quiet look as his breathing slowed.

It’s been two weeks and I have only to close my eyes to picture him there . . . or in my lap, or on the loveseat.  We’re both seeing his phantom presence, expecting him to softly pad into the den or meet us at the door.

His morning meow still whispers at me as I pour my tea. Where is our small, graceful everyday pal?  He’s still in the shadows in our house, in our hearts . . . and I’m absolutely stunned that it can hurt this much.

Newsletter

Today's breaking news and more in your inbox

I'm interested in (please check all that apply)
Are you a paying subscriber to the newspaper? *
   

COMMENTS

[vivafbcomment]

Starting at $4.62/week.

Subscribe Today