In the memory of my cat, Charles, who I had to kill a few days ago, March 18, 1998. I buried this site in the net, like I now have to bury my love for this friend of nine years - a bit like throwing a bottle in the ocean, without hope, without purpose.
I exorcise my pain.
If you are going through the same grief as I now am, maybe this will help you a bit. Maybe not. My best wished are with you.
I remember nine years ago. I went to the SPCA, looking for a cat, and I had a clear picture in mind, a white, long haired pet. All the cats in their cages were miawing away, except for this strange, orange tabey. He was actually sitting down, his back to the wall, and as I passed by he kind of talked to me, an odd grunt, really, and I figured an unmiawing cat was the greatest thing, and I fell in love, and adopted him.
I remember the long subway ride home, the animal in a carrying box, scared, his wet nostrils pressing on my finger through a small breathing hole...
Six months old, in a new home, he would crawl in bed with me, sleep against my feet under the covers, purr the night away. I called the previous owner, because she had paid boarding at the SPCA until the animal was adopted. She had named him Tintin, told me he had a brother, but she just could not keep both cats. I assured her Tintin would have a good home.
And I change his name to a proper name, certain that a proud feline would never be satisfied with such a cheezy label. Charles Edward Tabey the Second, Chuck for short. He would from there on carry his name with pride, and respond to it when called.
Orange Tabeys are the closest thing to a Canine Feline you can have.
He would wait for me in the stairs when I went home, comfort me when all hope seemed lost, mend my heart when my girlfriends left me. He just new what to do to make me feel better. I saw him as my little brother, shared with him the products of my hunt, treated him to special goods when things were well, and fed him first when things were not.
Five years ago, he developed hepatic lipidosis. I spent my last penny on the vet, borrowed more when I ran out of cash. I stayed up nights, fed him by force five times a day for two weeks, with the help of my girlfriend Kristi when I was not home. He survived, and we found out that valerian roots are like catnip on speed for cats.
On March 5th 1998, he stopped eating again. I took him to the vet, and we hoped that tartar buildup was the problem. More force feeding, some teeth scraping, and analgesic. On March 12th, he seemed better, but the next day was uncoordinated, with long strings of thick dribbles trailing from the corner of his mouth. He fell down a flight of stairs, a hard ten foot fall, and walked in pain for a few hours. Nothing was broken, it seemed - just a few bruises. But I grew more worried.
He would try to eat his food, but on the 16th started regurgitating everything. Back to the vet, in a hurry, where we found out he was diabetic!
Well, so am I, so I was ready to inject him daily, as I do. He was started on insulin on the 17th , did a bit of an overreaction, but the prognostic was good.
March 18th 1998, 10:30AM - doom strikes. The vet calls: Charles Is REALLY not well, I have to come in NOW.
Just a look at him broke my heart. Diagnostic: Severe pancreatis, and a stroke leading to ataxia, pain, confusion. Rapid degeneration. He was hurting, badly, with no possible remission in the short or long term. And I had to make that awful decision. The vet sedated him, as I stroke his little head. Then, with Charles almost asleep, he injected the poison straight into his heart. I was looking in his eye, and he seemed to welcome death, at least release from the pain. A cloud fell, the eyes became veiled, and he was nothing but flesh. I wish I could have told him what I felt, have him understand all he meant to me, be in his cat mind, just for a second...
My little brother was no more, and in the end I had killed him. I was cored, hollowed, flayed, transpierced with agony. I went home, and did not so much cried but howled in pain, his traces still surrounding me, him gone forever.
Lord knows, without any doubt, I would have given my life for his. Some people will never understand this, will believe it extreme of a lie. But would my father or mother have died, I would not have been more hurt - equally, certainly, but not more. Charles was a person to me, not just a pet. He was a true friend, and by his nature the only one to ever give me unconditional love in this world. When I took him under my wing, I also took the responsibility of his life and well being. In the end he did more for me then I ever did for him, and those claiming cats are cold, selfish animals just do not understand nor benefit from such a rewarding relationship. I pity them.
All that I wish now is that someday, when it is my turn to become worm food, somehow I will join him, in a new form, and that maybe we will be able to converse, to communicate. And until then, that his spirit guards over me, like he did throughout his life, and provide me with salvation, guidance, comfort, or even just for a blink of an eye, the feeling of his presence, a soft purr, the caress of his fur, his warmth by my side, late at night, when dreams are not so good and the wind howls outside.
PSA
March 20th 1998