KILLER IS GONE
Sep 15 '09
The Bottom Line One never knows how strongly the death of a pet will affect one until it happens.
We used to have a cat named Killer. We named him Killer because he was such a complete wus. We hoped the name would intimidate other animals in the neighborhood. It didn’t. We loved the fact that he was such a gentle, sweet wus. He had to be part Maine Coon. He had a long, fluffy coat and tail that was a brownish grayish color and tufts of fur coming out of his ears. He’d look at me and the expression on his face said, “I now own you and that’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh”.
He came to us in an odd way. We also had a three-colored female Torty named, by my wife, Mimsey Belle Pettipaw. When I felt affectionate I’d refer to her as Mimse-leh. That’s a Yiddish version of her name. That suffix “-leh” is used to denote affection and that the recipient is diminutive.
She was not the most even tempered creature in the world. I’ve been given to understand that all three-colored cats are female and they’re all nasty-tempered. She didn’t prove the rumors wrong. She was very vocal and would always bring your errors to your attention by saying, “mrrr-jerk” or “me-owyoutwit.” Very endearing qualities. She was very jealous of her territory and would be particularly rude to any invader--cat, dog or human by turning up her nose, sniffing very contemptuously and walking away with her tail in the air.
Killer used to live around the corner from us. The story I got was that his previous owner was abusive (why anyone would want to be abusive to an animal is beyond me, but that’s what I heard). I heard that one day when he was in his recliner, he jumped up into his lap, urinated on him, jumped down and ran out, never to return. Way to go, Killer.
He moved in with the family across the street. They had six other cats and a dozen ferrets! Well, “’each man to his fancy and me to my Nancy’ said the old man as he kissed the cow”. He would sit on their deck and watch as Mimsey was fussed over and coddled to no end. He must have thought to himself, “Hmmm. That’s a pretty good set-up. I think I’ll get a piece of it.”
He started hanging around with her and greeting me when I came home. He’d come up to me, get up on his hind legs with his paws on my leg and mew, asking to be picked up and petted. How could I refuse. Then he wormed his way into the house, investigated the entire structure and plopped himself down on the dining room floor as if to say, “Well, kids. Here I am and here I stay.” Again, I couldn’t say no.
We groomed him (Mimsey didn’t like that), petted him (Mimsey didn’t like that, either) and fed him (Mimsey really resented that but she couldn’t do anything about it. She’d hiss at him from time to time as if to remind him that he was an unwanted guest in her domain and he’d damn well better be on his best behavior. He always was.
When I was in my recliner watching TV, he’d jump up on my lap, turn around a few times, then plop himself down and push his nose under my hand. He wanted to be petted and I accommodated him. When my arm got tired and I stopped petting, he’d reach out a paw, rest it on top of my hand, then go to sleep. When he wanted to go out he’d go up to the door and either sit there until it magically opened by itself--with a little help from me--or raise up on his hind legs and reach for the knob with his front paws while mewing, “
One day my wife and I noticed that Mimsey was walking with a slight limp. Well, after all, by now she was 16 years old and arthritis was setting in. The limp got more and more pronounced. Then she didn’t eat as much as she had in the past. I could see what was happening: her systems were beginning to shut down one at a time and my wife and I, as well as Mimsey, were well aware of it.
One night she got into the bed next to my wife and stayed there the entire night, not moving from that spot. The next night she did the same thing to me. The following morning she went out and never came back. She’d gone to find a private place because she wanted to go to Cat Heaven without fanfare or an audience.
We missed her, of course, but Killer soon took over and ruled the house. Gently but firmly, he ruled. In the mornings when I made my bagel and cream cheese, he’d reach up for the cream cheese and wouldn’t stop until I gave him a dollop of it. He’d eat that with great delicacy and didn’t ask for seconds. A very well-behaved cat, as most cats are. At dinner he’d sit next to me and wait for me to share. If I didn’t share immediately or in what he considered a reasonable time, he’d put one paw on my leg as if to remind me that he was still there and still waiting for his share. He always got it.
Over the past few months he started walking up the stairs with a slight but decidedly obvious limp. I thought to myself, “Uh-oh. Here we go again.” His appetite diminished a bit but we didn’t think too much of that. After all, he was, by our best estimate, at least 14. That’s 98 years old for Lorne Greene.
He took a bit longer to jump into my lap and when he did, it was an obvious effort for him. Then about two weeks ago, a decidedly unpleasant odor began to emanate from him. It got much worse so we took him to the vet who told us that he had an infected tooth that had to come out. This was on a Thursday. The tooth didn’t have to come out immediately, so could we bring him back on Tuesday for the extraction. We agreed and took him home.
The odor became worse and worse. Then on Tuesday he went out and didn’t come back. I figured he’d pulled a “Mimsey”. No, that wasn’t the case. He came back Wednesday evening, walked into the house ignoring my wife and me and went straight to the blanket under the dining room table. He plopped down there and there he stayed for three days, whimpering the whole time.
On Saturday morning Carol (my wife) called to me and said he was having a seizure. I came up from the family room and looked at him--it wasn’t good. We got the cat carrier, put him into it and went back to the vet. The vet looked at him, looked in his mouth and said that the infection had gone too far. Then he left the room to let us decide.
The technician there told us that the probable outcome would be that we’d spend upwards of $500, then find out he had to be put down anyway. What did we want to do? At that point the money was totally irrelevant. All I could see was my favorite animal suffering badly. Carol was crying and I was having trouble speaking. I managed to croak out, “Do what has to be done. I asked if she was the one who’d administer the sedative. She said that another vet would do it.
That other vet came into the room. She was a very tall, very thin and attractive woman. She looked at Killer, opened his mouth to check his teeth and gums and said that his entire mouth was ulcerated but there were other things going on as well. Probably the poison from the infection had traveled through his system, affecting his heart and kidneys very badly with little or no hope for recovery. Did we want her to proceed? She was holding a syringe in her hand. I choked out, “Yes”, and then held my wife very closely.
The doctor took an electric clipper, shaved a small spot on his right front paw, then put the needle into it. Killer didn’t move or react in any way at all. He just lay there on the table while we both petted him and said goodbye.
A few moments later, his eyes were still open but he didn’t seem to be breathing. We asked the vet. She listened with the stethoscope and nodded to us that yes, his heart had stopped beating. The lump in my throat and the knot in my stomach seemed gigantic. Carol was sobbing openly and I wasn’t far behind. The doctor asked if we’d like them to see to his remains. They could bury or cremate him and give us the ashes. I asked to have him buried. She nodded understandingly and said if we wanted a few more minutes with him, by all means stay as long as we liked.
About 10 minutes later we left the treatment room. I was holding the cat carrier. When we got to the counter I asked if they wanted the carrier since I didn’t see any future use for it. They said they didn’t need it and that we’d probably need it later on when we got another cat. I had two thoughts immediately: how can they be so callous and they’re probably right. Both thoughts at the same time. I realized they were being realistic, not callous. I just kept the carrier.
Now it’s Sunday morning. I miss him terribly. I made my bagel and cream cheese this morning and was expecting to hear him say, “Mrrrr-metoo”. Everywhere I look I expect to see him. Killer is gone for good and it’s going to take a very long time for Carol and me to get past this.
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Epinions.com ID:
masonmaven
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Location: Massachusetts, United States
Reviews written: 38
Trusted by: 9 members
About Me:
Opinionated old fart who calls 'em as he sees 'em.
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