The Good Cat

My beloved 15-year-old cat is dying of cancer.

He was diagnosed a few months ago after steadily losing weight and interest in activities. It was shattering. I knew something must be wrong, of course, but I was hoping it was a bad tooth that could be pulled to restore his appetite. Hearing about the lump in his intestine reduced me to tears.

The diagnosis came with prednisone to shrink the tumor and give him back some life, and it worked, for a while. He ran around like a kitten for a few weeks, eating everything I put before him, and begging for attention.

He’s slowed down since then to a more sedate pace, still begging for attention when it suits him but only very rarely engaging in kittenish play. He’d rather watch me wave the string back and forth in front of him rather than snatch at it. He has no interest in feathers or catnip toys. The days of a wide-eyed yowl and a random tear down the hall, it appears, are now past.

Today as I petted him I could feel the lump in his side. And he looked up at me, as he sometimes does, as if he knows. He knows I’m grieving and he knows something is wrong with him. Is he waiting for me to make it better, to fix it, or does he understand that he has lived a good long life and it won’t be much longer now? Is he happy? Does he fear death or recognize it? So many questions without answers.

I dread the day I take him to the vet’s office for that last trip. I dread that he will feel as though I betrayed him, taking him from the home he loves, never to return, to die in a place he fears. I dread going home with an empty carrier and an empty house, full of tears and grief. I know this is the way it is – the cycle of life – but it makes it no less painful to part with the cat I’ve had as a companion for so many years.

He’s been a good cat in every way – friendly, gentle, feisty, independent, loving. I found him living under a van in a parking lot of an apartment complex that of course didn’t allow pets. I posted signs but no one claimed him and I’ve always thought they came out the losers in the deal. Of course I too had to move when the complex discovered I had him, but it was an easy choice to live somewhere else, somewhere that would welcome him.

He loves women and is suspicious of men, but will warm to them over time. He’s terrified of small children; even the sound of their voices outside sends him into an ear-pricked state of tension, and if they enter the house, he’s under the bed far away from grabbing hands and high-pitched voices.

Every day when I wake up he’s sitting on the end of the bed, and as soon as the alarm goes off or I stir, he makes his way up to my head with a chirp and a purr so loud I could put him on the phone. If I don’t move right away, he head butts me or reaches out with a paw and ever-so-gently touches my face with a paw and claw. It’s guaranteed to get attention.

He sleeps in the guest room on the bed at its head as though it belongs to him, or crawls up underneath it to sleep on a box of three-ring binders. He used to curl up in the bathroom sink because it was perfectly cat-sized and still wants water direct from the tap. Until recently he would tear out of his litter box as though shouting, “I’m lighter! I’m lighter!” before attacking his scratching post and leaving me holding my nose and calling him Smelly Cat.

Now he is thin and bony, his belly still regrowing hair from his ultrasound. Petting him I can feel every vertebra in his spine, and his hip bones poke my hand. He still purrs as loud as he ever did and still wants to sit on my lap, purring with a deep motorboat rumble, his eyes closing tightly and reopening in a sign of affection. He still wants his dinner and his breakfast, still wants a treat, and still wants catnip leaves straight from the plant.

Soon, though, there will come a day when the house is quiet.

I try not to think of that day.