When I was a kid, swinging as
high as I could go on my rope swing attached to the tree in the back yard, I
would pump and pump until I could go no higher.
Then I would stop pumping and let the swing go back and forth, back and
forth, in ever decreasing arcs, until it ever so slowly came to a stop. We called this waiting for the cat to die*.
I had not thought of this phrase
for many years until the last few days, nursing my old cat Dermot through his
final days. In May of 2015 the vet had diagnosed
a hard cancerous tumor growing on his jaw.
The tumor was too invasive for any surgery; it would just grow
back. So we watched and waited, making
sure he was not suffering. The tumor
began the size of a pea, progressed to the size of a peanut, then a walnut,
then a lemon – it was unstoppable – but so was Dermot.
His behavior never changed. He ate and slept and lounged out on the catio
watching the birds in the sunlight and moths in the moonlight. He had always been the cat who walked by
himself, barely paying attention to any feline housemates. He enjoyed a simple life – he came to me once
in a while for scritches and showed up for every meal on time. Sometimes in the morning I’d find him
sleeping next to me.
Dermot (long-haired gray and
white tuxedo) and his sister Siobhan (black and white short-haired cow cat)
were born in a little farm house out in South Wales, across from my friends’ magical
farm called Rivendell. Their mother was
also a long-haired tuxedo, as was their suspected father. The farm house was full of cats and huge
enthusiastic dogs with chickens pecking and clucking out on the lawn and a phalanx
of militant geese guarding the perimeter.
The kittens sang the song of
their people in the car all the way home, won over the border guards with their
infinite cuteness, and settled into their new digs nicely. Dermot was instantly friendly to me while
Siobhan acted like I was torturing her every time I tried to pet her. It took her almost three years before she
transformed overnight into a complete cuddlebug. They played together as kittens and then completely
ignored each other as they grew older.
Dermot acquired many nicknames in
his lifetime – Dermie Diamond Nose, Mister D, Big D, Big Fuzzy D, Dermie
Doodle, Doodlebug, and my favorite – Fuzzy Butt. His coat was magnificent, his toehawks were adorable, his tail was glorious (well, except for the time he got an abscess on the base of it and lost about two inches of fur so it ended up looking like a bottle brush - but I promised him I would not post any embarrassing photos on the Internet). He groomed himself religiously. He also left a trail of fine gray hairs
wherever he went. I expect I will be finding
fluffy traces of him for many years to come.
My house is filled with kitty
houses and cat beds and Dermot loved them all.
But his favorite places to sleep were inside cupboards – stashing away laundry was always a trial because he would leap onto a pile of clean
jeans or towels. He even figured out how
to get into the cupboard under the kitchen sink to lounge amongst the paper
towels, sponges and candles. I finally
had to install a baby lock to keep him out.
One day I discovered a sweatshirt on the closet floor - he had pulled it down off the hanger and made himself
a cozy bed. Talk
about a hair shirt!
 |
| The Hair Shirt |
In his prime he weighed over
twelve pounds; on the day he was diagnosed he had dropped down to ten
pounds. We knew he would eventually have
difficulty eating and this is exactly what happened. We switched from kibble to canned paté and when
he finally had trouble with the paté, in the last month or so, paté and water
were blended into a soupy slurry. Chicken and beef baby food, as well as a
liquid supplement, were added to his menu.
Every time I came up with a new meal he could more easily consume he
expressed great delight. He never failed
to show up on the bathroom counter for his meals. But his fur was becoming matted and dry, and
his weight continued to drop. His once-magnificent
ruff became scraggly and nearly disappeared.
He was practically a short-haired cat by the end. And, as he had done for nearly fifteen years,
he steadfastly refused to allow any attempts at grooming.
Until his last few days his
behavior was completely normal. One of
his cutest tricks was to come to me and “sharpen” his claws on my pants leg –
but he never unsheathed his claws while doing this – just huge soft paws going
through the motions. A truly gentle
soul. He slept a lot, usually sprawled on the cool tile floor in the kitchen
doorway and I had to be ever vigilant not to step on him or trip over him. I still find myself watching out for him in
that spot. It seems so odd that he is not there anymore.
 |
| The cool tile floor |
It got to the point where I found myself
expecting to find him dead on the floor in the mornings when I woke up or in
the evenings when I returned from the shop.
I so hoped he could just slip away painlessly. It was taking him longer and longer to
consume lesser and lesser amounts of any kind of food.
Wednesday the 27th of
July was a bad day for Facebook cats. In
one of my many cat groups a woman posted about the unexpected passing of her kitty Sweep
and another member of the group responded by posting a poem for her, to cushion her
sorrow. I was at the shop, worrying
about Dermot and looking for signs when I read this poem, called "May I Go Now?" by Susan A. Jackson. Tears filled my eyes as I read this – it seemed
to be Dermot speaking directly to me. It was a sign. I
phoned my vet, made that awful final appointment for my Doodlebug, and prepared
to close up early. Then another lady
posted about the loss of her kitty Odessa.
Another sign. I rushed home.
Dermot did not sing the song of
his people during the short trip to the vet’s office, but he did murmur a few soft
notes. The exam room was ready with a
soft fleece blanket on the stainless steel table and a tech gave him an
injection of a sleeping potion. He did
not protest, just kind of sighed and curled into a ball. I kept crooning to him, kissing him on his
head, stroking his still-soft fur and offering reassurances. By the time the
vet came in, he agreed that Dermot’s time had indeed come to leave our world. My once-magnificent boy was gone to the
Rainbow Bridge before the needle was removed from his leg. He was at peace.
Dermot swung through his life in
high arcs until one day he lost his momentum and finally began to slow at first
imperceptibly and then more visibly. He
lived his life as he always had, enjoying the little things that a cat enjoys –
sunlight and moonlight, soft beds and cool floors, a new cardboard box and plenty of food. Rest in peace, dear lad.
 |
| Nothing beats a nice new box! |
* The poem, Waitin' Fer The Cat to Die, was written by Hoosier poet James Whitcome Riley, an old family favorite for his book "Rhymes of Childhood", which included one of his most famous poems Little Orfant Annie.
