Esme moved in with us at three a.m. We deliver newspapers, so we were up early. When we heard a cat outside, we thought it was the neighbor’s cat coming to say hi to Boogers, our old tom. But it was this gray striped tabby, with a long silky coat. We had never seen her before, and she immediately began to turn on the charm, hopping into laps, licking hands, and purring. Loudly. It worked; by the end of the morning, we had a new cat. She lived with us for nine and a half years, until we had to put her to sleep eighteen days ago. Charm, aside, we quickly discovered she was an ornery cuss who liked things her own way, like most cats, only worse. Her long fur needed steady brushing, but if she wasn’t in the mood, that was that. Ditto for baths. Whenever we tried to trim the horrendous mats that developed every summer, she carried on like she was auditioning for the kitty version of The Exorcist-as Pazuzu himself. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Yet she could be sweet. Often in the afternoons she would creep into the bedroom and curl up against my husband’s back (a few hours later she would wake him by chewing his hair). When we walked into the room she would trill a greeting. If she wanted out on the balcony she would stand by the door (or claw the curtain) and meow earnestly, meow MEOW. It sounded like a chime.
And she loved to bolt. Fat as she was, she could clear the walkway and the stairs in two bounds, then dart between the bushes, forcing us to call and chase, until we finally caught her. I think was more a game than a serious attempt to run away, or perhaps she wanted the assurance that we would come after her.
She was always Mr. Garside’s special cat, probably because he was the one who opened the door and let her in. When he came home she would run to greet him, hopping up on the back of the couch. Or she would rear up on her hind legs, in what we called her ‘Hi-o Silver’ pose. Plump as she was, you’d think she would have trouble getting all of that off the floor, but she was remarkably agile and dainty. She seemed to float as she moved across the floor, so we never worried about her weight. With her short sturdy legs and her round head, dumpy seemed to be her normal body type. She wasn’t much for jumping into laps (unless we were trying to read the paper); she liked us to come to her. We were happy to oblige.
When she stopped eating, we spent a day telling ourselves it was only the heat; she was an older cat, after all, and their appetites shift with the years. Then we took her to the vet. It was a struggle, but they got the x-rays and the blood and urine samples. She still wouldn’t eat, and least not much. We braced ourselves for bad news.
And it was bad; Esme had lymphoma. The chemo treatment would be expansive, and grueling, with shots and blood draws every week. It’s possible to explain this to even a very young child, why this must be done, how even after all the shots and hospital stays, you still might die (amazing how matter-of-fact children can be about this). You can’t explain it to a cat, even one as smart as Esme. With her strong sense of self and her ornery disposition, she would have hated it. And sooner or later, she would have hated us too. Mr. Garside and I held each other and cried. Knowing that euthanasia was the right thing to do was little comfort.
Being pack animals ourselves, we seek out the warmth of other living creatures-be they other people, or pets. Animal company is a comfort, a connection, and a reminder that we’re all part of Creation. You can’t bring animals, whether pets or livestock, into your home without loving them and appreciating their animality. And we loved Esme; had she been a human being, she probably would have been insufferable, But she was a cat, so she was enchanting instead. The house is quieter; we keep expecting to see her, lolling on the couch or the dining table (she wasn’t allowed there, but we gave up trying to enforce that). Her brother, Grimm, seems lonely, but he doesn’t look for her. Did he know she was ill, and that she’d be gone soon?
Has she gone to Heaven? I think so. Any creature with that much personality and intelligence must have an immortal soul; a loving God wouldn’t separate humans from their animal friends for Eternity. To me, that makes no sense.
Of course we’ll get a new cat, after a decent interval. This household works best as a foursome; we’ve always had two pets, and Grimm would like a companion. Esme was part of the continuum of our lives, of the world itself. Like all of us, she was unique. She deserves remembrance.
Tags:
cats, euthanasia, grief, pets
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