When This Becomes There

Last week I lost Hermonie, my side-kick black cat of 14 years. Hermonie became my pet (or the other way around) in 2002. My wife and I had just married, moved to a new city, and went to the rescue center to get a cat. There was one cage with a litter of kittens. A rowdy, jellicle-cat stuffed her black and white paws out at my wife when she walked by, and my wife was hooked. My wife pointed the cat out and the attendant pulled her from the cage. The other cats in the litter were all black, and my eyes fell on the tiny runt in the back corner with her limbs folded easy under her body. As the attendant was handing the jellicle cat over to my wife, I asked her for another, for the runt in the back. The jellicle, who survives her sister, is named Meow. The runt was named Hermonie.

The jellicle, Meow, continued her wild, insatiable streak. The reserved, Hermonie, grew into the typical cat that doesn’t bend to the human. She initiated petting by giving a bite on the hand, and then another bite to indicate pet time was over. She wouldn’t be held, and wouldn’t sit in your lap if it was the last place on a burning Earth. She didn’t sleep in the beds bought for her, but would sleep in fresh laundry baskets and inside clean linen closets. She sprung the door stoppers at 3am when hungry, and slapped the blind strings when she wanted others to awake to join her. She scurried off the bed when you went to bed to only come back later and sleep (and snore) on your chest. And then the other things, like pooping next to the litter box and her stringent, merciless job of unwinding toilet paper rolls.

Nine months ago, and somewhat overnight, Hermonie fell ill. The vet ran blood tests and reported end stage renal failure. She told me she had a week left, tops. I opted to take her home for one more day to say goodbye, and scheduled the euthanasia the next day. That night she ate deli turkey (her favorite), and then slept next to me purring all along. The next day was better. And then the next was even better. By the next week she had dropped needed weight, and was moving around more than she had in years. She kicked the dog out of his bed and was jumping up on counters and tables again. Of course, I knew that she wasn’t magically healed. I knew this was a burst. Everyone says they will let you know when it is time, and she was clearly telling me there was more stuff in the tank.

That ninth life burned out two weeks ago. She went blind, and then eating and drinking became difficult. I pledged against suffering and selfishness. I scheduled another appointment. The night before, my aloof cat, jumped into my lap when playing video games, curled once, purred, and slept. A damn lap cat, fourteen years in the making.

So of course I chickened out again on the next appointment. But another week went by and our evasion was over.  We had ran far and hid well, but death scratched incessant at the door. It was time. I picked her up from her food bowl, sitting next to her sister, Meow.  We went to meet it and she left on a sunny Texas afternoon–in trailing clouds of glory.

But enough about the end. This runt cat survived the pound. She slept on the desks of college newlyweds. She walked across the keyboards during thesis writing. She watched us form careers. She traversed 5000 miles and lived in three different states. She saw all three babies came home from the hospital. She watched her family grow. She slept at the feet of her human sisters, and hissed at them when they tossed and turned. And then when told she had to leave it, she doubled down for another nine months. On her own terms. Always. She lived them. She ended it on them.

Farewell my friend.