Today I put my cat Baldrick to sleep. He was 13 years old, and handsome as ever – all white with a gray mottled tail, green eyes and pink ears and nose.
When I got him, he was a foundling, too young to be weaned. I fed him with a bottle and kitten milk replacement formula. He was too young to be dewormed, even though samples revealed that he had three different types of intestinal parasites. Something had attacked him, too – he had bites taken out of his head and at the base of his tail. The vet didn’t think he’d make it.
We kept him alive long enough to be dewormed and tested for disease. When it turned out he was disease-free, he was finally allowed to roam outside the bedroom – he’d been quarantined for fear of infecting my other cat.
He grew up to rule the roost. He’d box with the dog, and terrorize the other cat. He always ate like it might be his last chance. He grew from a kitten that fit in the palm of my hand to a twenty-pound monster. We moved away and placed the dog with friends. A year and a half ago, my old spinster cat Violet went on to her reward after 16 years with me. Six months ago, we got a new kitten, and Baldrick, once he reluctantly concluded that the kitten was not in fact a space alien (all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding), set about teaching him his business. They wrestled together, and Baldrick never had to see the day when Wimsey grew big enough to take him down.
Baldrick loved the rough stuff – even petting had to be ferocious as far he was concerned. He loved to have his ears pulled, harder than you’d think would be comfortable. But he could come be quiet with me, too. When I had cramps, there was nothing better than my big, furry, purring heating pad.
Finally, this past week, Baldrick slowly stopped eating and grew more and more lethargic. I thought he was reacting to new food, having a bout of constipation. By yesterday, I knew he was really miserable. I took him to the vet last night, and was stunned to learn that he had a mass on his liver and fluid in his chest. The vet thought it was probably lymphoma. We decided to try him on steroids for a few days and see if he could bounce back a little. But by this morning, it was clear to me where my duty to Baldrick lay. This afternoon, I took him in for a final time. He still had a enough energy to give the vet a piece of his mind. And even as the sedation took effect, he responded when I called him by my favorite nickname for him.
Baldrick and his older sister Violet had been part of my life longer than any friend I have, longer than anyone other than my family. They saw me through a marriage, numberless boyfriends, three states, a house and three apartments. Now that Baldrick has followed Violet, I have lost a major, living connection to my past, as well as a staunch and true friend (who probably wouldn’t have waited more than 6hours to start eating me, if I had ever died in my sleep ;)).
It is said that not a sparrow falls but God knows it. I’m not fit to argue about pets’ souls or lack thereof, but I know that any God who loves me will take care of my boy, and will make sure we meet again. I hope he’s got somebody fun to wrestle with tonight.
I miss him.
Aholibah
Poor Aholibah.