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Not that I necessarily hate cats, I'm just not a cat person. The first cat in our family was due to me, because I was young and thought a kitty would be cute and cuddly and fun. Instead, she hissed and clawed and growled. She took pleasure from all my little friends running away from her in fright. She was evil. It was not the start of a very good track record...
So, when I was out with my boss looking at dogs to adopt for our senior community I saw a heartbreaking little cat. He was all black and his green eyes completely crossed. The volunteers told me he was hit in the head with a weed whacker when he was a kitty, that's why he looked the way he did. And to top it off they called him Whacker. I had to giggle.
Back at work I called my sister, the wrong person to confide in about adopting/buying an animal. You think she'll give you sound advice but in the end she is just telling you to get the damned thing. "Go back and if he's still there its meant to be. You can adopt him for the community." So I went back, and there he was, all pathetic looking.
He stayed in my office one day, on my desk. Then I took him to meet my parents and their black cat. Dad fell in love, possessively, with Whacker. My big ole dad just tenderly stroked the cat's head and told me either I kept him at my home, or he did. The end. Over his shoulder my lovely mother was pointing at me and mouthing "We don't need another animal, you take that fucking thing home with you!!!"
And I did. Whacker, whom my dad demanded must be renamed, went home with me. The EX and I had recently moved in together. I walked in with the cat in a carrier. The EX eyed it.
"What's in there."
"A cat."
"Is it going to stay here?"
"I don't know yet. Maybe. Do you mind?"
"Do I have a choice?"
I thought about it a second. "Not really." And that should have told us both a hell of a lot about our relationship.
So, The Cat stayed. At first he was all pathetic and mild mannered. After a vet check I discovered he had a respiratory and eye infection and needed meds. Once the meds cleared him all up The Cat turned into Chucky. He bolted through the house at night after all the lights went out. For such a little thing, he managed to slam into the mirrored closet doors, break dishes and knock himself out against the bed. In the mornings the Cat would nibble my chin or nose or just sleep on my head regardless of how many attempts I made to shove him away.
He would sit behind me yowling while I got ready for work. When he could stand it no longer he lunged up and attached his claws into my sweatpant clad ass. It was ridiculous.
But the EX was on my sister's side. They thought it was cruel to de-claw. After several days walking around with a cat hanging from my ass I told them both to shut the hell up and called the vet. The EX continued to fight me on it, as if he had a choice in the matter now.
About a week before The Cat's appointment, as I sat on the end of the EX's massive sectional, that he made love to more frequently than me, The Cat decided to lay on his side and use ALL four paws to scamper the length of the couch. Digging in deep.
In my sweetest voice I called out "Honey, you have to come see the kitty doing the cutest thing!"
The look on his face was priceless, but followed by anger at me for allowing The Cat to do it in the first place. I rolled my eyes and reminded him why I was getting this demon spawn's hand-o-knives surgically removed.
That first year with The Cat was marked by many strange and expensive events. He would sit in the kitchen, just out of reach and eye me, trying to guess how long it would take me to get around the bar to catch him. Then he would send one of my plates crashing to the ground. Or knock the trash can down while I was at work so the dog would tear everything up in a holy freaking mess. I had to buy an enclosed trash bin cabinet to keep them both out.
He also liked to sit on the edge of the tub while I showered. Plotting some other scheme I'm sure... The night he figured out how to turn the TV on I could have skinned him alive. Every five minutes he'd turn the big screen on, I'd have to get out of bed to turn it off. Finally I just muted the effing thing and gave the Cat the finger.
The worst was right after the EX left. I was excited to be getting home early, planned on playing with the animals, going for a walk and relaxing with a book. I was smiling in earnest for the first time in almost a year. When I opened the door to the condo a murder scene greeted me, with The Cat dancing around in all the blood.
It was smeared all over the tile, the walls, to my right in the steel water dish, crimson sparkled out at me. The carpet in the bedroom was pink, my brand new white quilt looked as if someone had been stabbed to death on it. Blood dotted the mirrored closets. In a panic I checked over the dog who had a little gash on his tongue and on his paws. The Cat was unscathed. The weapon of choice... A glass pesto jar that had sat untouched on the counter for 2 months. All the glass had been smashed, eaten up with the pesto, by the dog. And the fucking Cat was loving every minute of it.
In shock I stroked the dog's head as he shivered, told him I would just go to the bathroom and then we'd pay a lil visit to the emergency vet. You'd think the bathroom would have been safe... No, blood on the toilet, in the toilet, even in the freaking tub. I quickly cleaned the toilet up, peed with a pounding heart and took the dog to the vet.
3 hours and a hundred bucks later I returned to the bloody condo with a dog who would eventually "pass" all that glass. The next four hours was spent cleaning. Every time I turned around The Cat was in the bucket of red mop water splashing it all over the place. I swear to God, if I could have caught him, I would've killed him. No holding back. My relaxing evening turned into an all nighter of hellish labor.
In addition to the big events, there were the little ones. Like how every morning he would stalk me from the bottom of the bed trying to wake me up. I would crack an eye, see him coming, and right before he pounced I would kick/throw/elbow/scream him off the bed. That "little cat" had tripled his size and was now more of a panther than domestic animal. He lived solely to torture me. (and to complete his first attempt at killing the dog)
Few weeks after the pesto jar, I took The Cat in for his annual vet visit. Everything was fine. Until the blood work came back and I discovered he had feline leukemia. That, apparently, is very bad. Immediately I rushed home from work, scooped up the cat and took him back to be retested. I felt awful for all the kicking/throwing/screaming I'd done to this poor animal. And awful guilty for allowing him to expose all my sister's cats and my mom's own demon feline. He probably knew and was deceptively trying to kill them all slowly. Evil bastard.
Six weeks and three hundred dollars later, The Cat was positive. Every time he did some shitty thing he'd plop down on the ground, look up at me like "What? I've got leukemia." and there was nothing I could do about it. But eventually I moved on and went back to our battle in earnest. By Christmas I had him in the cutest little reindeer outfit, complete with antlers, and he hated every minute of my enjoyment! (my dad bought it so I cannot be blamed. it's rude not to put a gift to use)
There were some great times too. After The Cat would scream at me when I got home from a vacation, because he'd had no one to torture, he would cuddle up to my face in bed and purr. He'd reach out with those long monkey arms and pet me, or hug against me. Or how he would stretch out on his back when I got home from work. He managed to get his entire body flat and straight so you could just rub him up and down.
Everyone who knows me, knows I loved that Cat. Regardless of how many times I tossed him through the air or tried to give him away to unsuspecting parties, he was mine, and I was convinced he was going to make my life a living hell for the next 20 years or so. I had the Guinness Book of World Records on speed dial for the day he achieved the record of being the oldest, most annoying cat and won the record for causing the most damage.
Then, a couple weeks ago I came home and The Cat was laying on his side on the kitchen floor. He was wet, the giant water dish overturned. Both dogs were pacing around him, concerned, but not upset. The Cat just looked up at me like "Can you just get this fixed."
I was in shock mode again. What the hell happened? The Cat's hind leg looked useless and his eyes were bright with pain.
Calmly, I put both the dogs outside, grabbed the carrier and pulled the top of. Poor thing dragged himself over to get in. It was heartbreaking, but gave me hope. From the looks of the scene, I suspected The Cat had jumped, miscalculated and fell off the counter. Broken leg? Or hip. Please God, not the back. As terrible as it sounds, I was worried I wouldn't have enough money to fix him.
As I got in the car, I called my lovely mother to tell her I'd need to use her credit card for this. I was such a piece of shit, couldn't even take care of my own cat. Silently, I promised him I would pawn everything I own to make this right. Starting with jewelry from the EX.
At the vet I got a true look at the damage. It was dog teeth that had broken The Cat. The vet said this happens all the time and from the looks of the wounds, it wasn't serious. She'd call me in a bit with more after they sedated my now panting and crying cat. He kept reaching out to me, wanting me to all but lay on top of him to make the pain go away. That was when I started crying and couldn't stop.
He gave the vet tech an evil glare when she took off his collar. Despite his pain, he flipped over in the carrier and chewed on the skull and cross bones as if to say "Mine".
Three hours later I had cleaned the whole house. The irony of mopping up The Cats blood was not lost on me. I texted the Principal. He blamed Angus. I wasn't sure it was his dog, but I didn't want to believe either dog could have hurt The Cat who beat the both of them up so often. My heart wasn't breaking. I had hope. Pain meds, xrays, no broken bones, probably just muscle injuries. I could bring him home...
The vet was very clear there was something more, she couldn't figure out his pain. It would have cost over a grand to put him in the hospital for the night and I could nurse him at home. He needed to be home. The Principal, just in town, got there before me. When I saw the look on his face my hope faltered a bit. I shoved it back in place.
I settled him alone in the bedroom on a heating pad. The back end of his body was like ice. I knew this was bad but I had hope. The Cat cried more and more. The Principal told me to let him rest. Every ten minute I went back to check. The Cat was pathetic. Wanted water and slurped it down greedily. He got worse. We had to take him to the ER soon but I wanted to try the pain meds. I gave it to him, stroked his head as he thrashed at his useless leg. Ten minutes to see how the meds worked then we were going.
When I went back he was silent. Unmoving.
I yelled for the Principal."I think he's dead." My voice was shaky. It was not my voice.
He leaned over The Cat. He rested his head on his chest. The Principal even blew air into his mouth. I hadn't realized yet but I was sobbing, pacing, waiting for the Principal to lift The Cat into the carrier and rush out to the hospital.
Instead, he turned back to me shaking his head and opening his arms to embrace me. He had to be wrong! The Cat couldn't be killed. I was going to fix this, make him better! But when I knelt down in front of Jeter, I couldn't even touch him. Once I spoke, it became a chant "I'm so sorry.." I rocked back and forth.
The Principal tried to get me to sit up so he could hold me, give comfort. "Are you sure?" My hope lit up again. I mean, The Cat didn't look dead, couldn't be dead.
He checked every time I asked "Are you sure." I raced to get a flash light so The Principal could check his eyes. Then my heart was ripped into eighty-four thousand pieces again and I would sob uncontrollably. I wanted to die. I didn't deserve to live. Normal, decent people take care of their cats. I allowed mine to mauled by my own fucking dogs.
The Principal gently laid Jeter in his kitty bed, the very first one I had gotten him at the senior community. He loved that bed. I followed the Principal into the spare room where he put on his shoes. I couldn't leave The Cat alone. I shouldn't have ever left him alone, that's why he's dead. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, but we're going to the vet anyway. Okay?"
"Do you think I killed him, giving him more pain meds?" I fell to my knees. My stomach knotted underneath my rib cage and suctioned itself to my heart. I had killed my own cat. Once I realized I was sobbing into the Principal's knee I moved to face the bed, but there was the quiet cat. I bit my lip hard.
There are so many things in this life I have lifted up and carried on my shoulders. Was it really so much to ask that my asshole cat be unscathed? I couldn't breath. This can't be happening.
We got in the car, drove halfway to the vet, realized neither of us brought a wallet and had to go back. Which was a good thing, I needed tissues. Snot was running like a river. My eyes refused to stop leaking, my heart was shredding through my back and my mind.. My mind was treading the darkest waters it had in years. I had to bite my lip to keep from asking "Are you sure...
I just stared down at Jeter in his kitty bed. Curled up with his head turned and one paw resting on the edge, just the way he loved to sleep. I stroked his body trying to convey all the love I would have shown him over the next 20 years if he would only stay... I tried to hold his paw up to my face, but he was no longer as pliant as he once was. I thought it was impossible, but my heart shattered even more.
The vet took him, and he was cremated. When she asked me how old the Cat I cried even harder. Not even four years old...
It would have cost double to get the ashes. I already have one dead man's ashes in my house... it just would be too strange. I walked briskly out of the office, to the car, where I immediately dissolved into gut wrenching pain again. I left him alone, forever. It wasn't right. I was wrong. Were they sure... What if they're wrong..
We drove home in silence. I swore this pain was never going to leave my body. My soul hurt. I had to tell my family what I had done. They'd tell me it wasn't my fault. I would have to pretend I understood that. I cried so much that my eyes ached. When I lay down, water rained from my cheeks. It would be better in the morning, right?
I woke up sobbing. One look in the mirror and I saw eggs had been laid beneath my eyes. They were swollen nearly shut and my nose was raw. The Principal didn't drive all the way from New Mexico to see this. I was ruining everything already, but I couldn't seem to care. That long legged cat from hell broke my heart. I should have protected him. I shoved on some sunglasses and continued to cry.
Ice packs didn't help because the tears wouldn't cease. Laughter only made me feel worse, I had no right to laugh when that Cat was killed in my very home. The worst part was the dogs. Angus continued to look for The Cat and Cutter was only mildly put off by his absence. I wanted both of them gone. The Principal would soon have a permanent home and could take them.
All weekend I was a walking zombie. The Principal was an amazing support system. Smiling, making jokes, dancing in his little elvish way. He was sweet and understanding. He made me food. Looked after the dogs so I wouldn't be forced to. Took all of the Cat's effects, food, meds, kitty litter, to a shelter. I can't imagine what he thought of me crying and carrying on the way I did. But I didn't care. The Cat was dead. Nothing else matters.
Everyone says I'll get over it. It has been a few weeks and I no longer cry constantly. I can look at the top of the refrigerator without sobbing. I can look at the dogs, play with them. But I am not over it. Jeter was my cat. My constant. And now he no longer exists.
This may seem like a long post, but it was too brief a life. I mean he didn't even get to break all of my plates yet... I never got to take him swimming or to dress him up as a ballerina...
