We had to put "down" our dear cat, Inky on Saturday, March 27. It's a difficult euphemism, meaning we induced her death; but as painful and shocking as it was, we had no choice.
We are more than heartbroken. Martha and I have been emotional wrecks. She had been a element of
our daily lives and routines. She was as much a family member as our sons.
Over the past few months she'd become mere fur and bones, with difficulty walking and lapping up water at every opportunity. Cats lose most of their kidney function as they age and we'd put water bowls in several spots around the house. We knew it was coming, but in the final couple weeks she'd become so weak that we had to carry her between floors. She had trouble with her balance and her eyes were cloudy and running.
I can't help but think that her fate was hastened by the moving she was forced to do over the past year. Her first 15 years were in the same house in Purcellville, growing up with the boys and their raucous antics and music. She had a back yard and woods to prowl and guard. One of us was routinely opening the back porch door to let her in or out. She had never even been in a car for a vet visit - we had a vet who came to our house. That vet, Dr. Redmond, told us that if dogs are all about their people, cats are all about their space. And at an advanced age, we ripped her from her space and put her through several traumatic long-distance car trips. When we sold the house and temporarily moved to Castle Park in
May, Patrick and Nathan took her to an apartment in Harrisonburg. That was only a two hour drive. She loved them both and seemed to adjust. They had to give up their apartment in August, so Nathan drove her from Virginia to CP; a thirteen hour drive stuck in a small box. Fortunately, she seemed to adjust and the cottage and Park are good places for a cat. I could sense, though, that it had taken a toll on her. Finally, when our new home in Richmond was finished, Patrick drove her the thirteen hours back from Michigan in the little cage. She again seemed to adjust, but her health was never the same.
Contrary to Dr. Redmond's maxim, Inky was comforted by her people along with the routines and rituals we'd built with one another. It seemed that I had a special bond with her; probably because I indulged her so much. She was never one to rub up against a leg or cuddle in a traditional sense. She was much too haughty and aloof for that. But she loved - and lived for - laps. Especially mine. Whenever I sat down, I could count on her jumping up and getting settled for some cheek rubs and a nap; eventually sprawling out lengthwise along my legs, with head and paws at my ankles. Our custom in the evenings included a blanket while I watched television and she could sink between my legs. She was in heaven. Until I had to get up for bed. Then she followed me and waited until I climbed under the covers and again nestled between my legs. Sometimes, before bed, I would play with her; a game of tossing a hair band that she stalked and leaped for. Even as an older cat, she continued to enjoy play - and it seemed to form a bond between us. Whenever I sat down to put on socks, she saw that as a cue to come over for rubs. In her last year, she waited as I showered so she could come in afterwards and lap up the water. She was a constant presence and companion.
She was in the middle of everything with the boys. She was never bothered by their loud noise or the wailing of bands in our house over the years. In summers, we had to leave her for long periods and when we came home and opened the door, she would lay down on her side, welcoming us home and inviting a belly rub - even if it was a short time.
It sounds peculiar, but her death has affected me more than the death of my mother or uncle, who died twenty-three and seventeen years ago, respectively. You'd think their deaths - as humans and relatives who were important to me - would have more emotional impact than a cat. But they'd long ago ceased having any connection to my everyday life. I had my own family and life and, while important, they had become part of my history. I mourned the more distant memory of their contributions to my upbringing, but they were not part of my daily life.
Now, going about the house, we are struck by a sense of missing; where she could be seen curled up in a chair, or sprawled in the sunlight streaming through a window. It was always a wonder that a black cat could enjoy spreading out on a blacktop driveway in the height of summer. But she seemed to like the heat. I come up the stairs to my office and as I turn the corner and look at the red couch, my stomach leaps to my throat. Where my curled up companion would be is now empty.
And as I go about my routines and the rituals we shared, putting on my socks, climbing into bed, I am wracked by sudden sobs and emptiness. A friend, a companion, a comfort and family member is gone and it's more wrenching and soul twisting than I've experienced in years.
It's also the mark of an era that includes our move to Richmond, as empty nesters and my retirement. We have moved into a new stage of our lives, and painfully, some of those who were part of it.
Inky's death has combined with those changes - and with age - to make me reflect on my life; our lives, and how fleeting they are. In the course of our hurrying along with the moment's urgency, we take time, people and life lived for granted. It is, perhaps, age, loss and our own limited futures that focuses both our mourning and relishment of time, our memories, our people…..and our cats.
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