It’s a Wednesday morning in August and the smallest, quirkiest, most lovable, most annoying, and by far the furriest member of our family is gone. I’d cried as I held him in my arms at the veterinary clinic the day before. Wrapped in a warm, soft blanket, he was pain-free and at peace. I’d been through this three times before with our other adopted cats, some might wonder why. They give us so much during our time together that I’m compelled to be there, fully present at the end. I want them to know that they are loved, and that we’ll miss them–even if it does leave me in bits.
Now as I pad softly down the stairs, my bare toes scrunching on the pile of the carpet, his absence doesn’t so much slap me in the face as reveal itself in increments, small shifts in a daily routine established over years. The living room and kitchen doors are open. Like the gates at Sing Sing they’re usually closed, our entire first floor converted into a five-star solitary confinement zone, keeping our feline friend contained overnight. But this was no hardship, “The Box” came complete with lounging cushions and overnight snacks; there was even a door mat to provide relief when the urge to scratch proved too much.
Today there’s no tell-tale morning greeting, sometimes so loud it would shatter the early morning silence. Loki’s vocal repertoire had grown considerably since his partner Mickey died two years ago. Since their arrival he’d maintained almost monastic-like silence, interspersed only with the hisses we came to know as his normal expressions of intent. Within days of becoming the sole focus of our attention, he developed a meow that occupied the auditory wavelength range somewhere between a frog croak and a dog bark. It was weird but singularly endearing. And in the biggest surprise of all, there was purring, although he rationed this out sparingly. As the only other participant in guy time, I was the lucky recipient of a few minutes of these deep-throated rumblings each night, only between the hours of 8-10pm, and always while he lay on the sofa cushion next to me. My rights were immediately forfeit if I accidentally touched the wrong spots on his body that instantly raised hackles and elicited a warning growl.
Today I won’t prepare his breakfast. Cats are notoriously fickle food critics, so choosy they could all write for the New York Times.
I couldn’t possibly eat the same food for dinner as I did for lunch.
Dry food? I don’t think so.
The gravy is delicious but really, what’s with this fish?
Did you not warm my food? Take it away!
This only became more pronounced the last few weeks as his condition worsened. Dozens of partly eaten cans of food were discarded, dishes with a crusted rim of dry food scraped and washed. No amount of slicing and dicing of food deemed “too chunky” could convince him to consume, and in the end only an appetite enhancer ensured that he ate at all. In all respects, Nancy became a geriatric nurse, which given his longevity–approximately eighty years old on the people scale–seemed at least understandable.
And today of course, there'll be no protest to go outside. A total heat hog, he would complain relentlessly to go out no matter the actual weather, and this despite being an indoor cat well used to his literal creature comforts. Pacing, scratching at the doors, and croaking, his desires were made perfectly plain. Once freed from interior torture, he would sit on the dimpled concrete patio, stretch out on the deck, or curl up in a wooden flower box. He didn’t care about the location so long as he could bask in the warming rays of the sun, pupils narrowed to slits as the dust motes danced in the sunlight. During the winter, in a remarkable feat of ingenuity, he discovered that the vents in the downstairs floor blew hot air. I would arrive sleepy-eyed on chilly mornings to find him à la Marylin Monroe, rocking back and forth in a hypnotic state as a torrent of heat whooshed up his furry skirt.
Part Chartreuse, part Russian Blue, Loki sported a handsome, thick, and solid grey coat accessorized with a raccoon-style ringed tail that could only be seen in the right light, his eyes blazed amber. His personality was unique, at least when measured against over 30 years of cat cohabitation. His emotions ranged from aloofness to affection to outright thuggery. He felt no guilt whatsoever in pursuing any of us around the house, rapier-like claws flashing at our heels demanding food, or in retaliation for some perceived sleight. He would however, if not happily, at least grudgingly cohabit the same deck space as our resident squirrels and birds, and never unleash the serial killer self that surely inhabits every other cat. Given his enigmatic persona and proclivity for dramatic mood swings, it wasn’t unusual for us to brand him with a variety of labels: “Boo-boo-bear” and “Bubba-cheeks” were most popular with Nancy and Amelia during his periods of good behavior, and “Twat” ranked highest for all of us when the dark side materialized.
In the quiet time before Nancy and Amelia wake, I’m left with my thoughts in the empty kitchen. I have to remind myself again that we need a break now, to be pet-free, at least for a while. But it’s hard. There is a void in our lives where Loki used to be, and only the passage of time will help it slowly close. Even then I suspect there will always be a little emotional bump, not unlike a scar from one of his infamous scratches, which only seems appropriate.