I lost my best friend...
I was in seventh grade, a little under twelve years ago. On the bus to school, at the unreasonably early hour that I had to be there, I was looking out the window at the late fall weather, being grey and muggy, as it always was that time of year. Not having many friends from my neighborhood, I was usually left to my devices, and didn't have to indulge anyone in the useless prattle of the age group. Looking outside, the bus drove by a small box, about the size of a shoebox (it might have been, I can't clearly recall) on the side of the road. In the momentary glance I got from the box, I saw a small tangle of fur, black and white against the brown of the container, it stood out. My hometown is notoriously hard on unwanted animals, and I had heard stories of people tossing boxes or bags of unwanted, unloved animals out of their car windows. The box wasn't far from the intersection turn-in to my school, so after getting off the bus, I made my way to the intersection to investigate. It might have been out of compassion (I am an avid animal lover, even the most annoying breeds of animal should be treated well in my eyes.) but it also might have been morbid curiosity.
As I got near the box, I could hear faint mewling, the sound of hungry and probably cold, kittens. My heart instantly broke. How anyone could abandon kittens, still to this day, confounds me. Gently poking the contents, I found six or seven kittens, only two of them alive. Thinking quickly (or not, I was in Junior High)I removed the cold bodies of the deceased from the box, and covered them with the thick dead grass of the area. I had no time for a proper burial, as home room was due to start shortly. I then emptied my backpack (It was a large number, we had many books to carry, and no lockers. I still have this backpack.) set the books aside, and put the box inside. It was dark and scary, but I knew it would be warmer than being exposed to the rapidly cooling weather. Leaving the backpack unzipped partially to ensure air, I made my way to homeroom.
I quickly let my few friends know about what had happened, and made my way to class. I was nervous. Had they been discovered, they would have been taken away, and immediately put into a shelter. Even then, I knew that shelters in my town was an almost guaranteed death sentence. Mentally willing them to be silent, I proceeded to make my way through my seven-hour day. At lunch, I tried to give them milk, but they were too young to know to lap it up, they hadn't even been weaned yet. It was during this twenty-five minutes of freedom that I got a good look at the two survivors. One was much larger than the other, but they both had similar markings. The larger had more solid white on him and blue eyes, the smaller, more color and yellow eyes. They were both active, but the smaller one less so, and his eyes were sickly. I figured him the runt of the litter. A friend of mine, who was leaving school early that day said she could take one, and I chose to keep the runt. I never saw the other kitten again, and by hearsay, I heard he was shunted between homes a few times before I lost contact with this forgettable chum.
After lunch, I had history with Mrs. Kennedy. A great woman, she was small (she hated the word "short" you would be disciplined if you said it in her class.), and graying at her temples. She was a good teacher, and an animal lover. She had pictures of her dog next to pictures of her kids, and a photo of both her kids and her dog had center place on her desk. I felt safe telling her of the contents of my backpack. She smiled at me, and made a call from the phone next to the door of the classroom, the one reserved for calling the front office. She wrote something on a slip of paper, hung up, and dialed a second time. She laughed, and spoke quietly enough that I couldn't hear her end of the conversation. After just a few moments, she told me to go to the front office, and everything would be taken care of. I was outraged, and devastated that this woman I thought of as a confidant would turn me in so jovially. When I get to the front office, using the short walk and cool air to calm down a bit, the receptionist at the desk smiles at me, and tells me to take a seat in the visitor area, on the other side of the building. After about ten minutes, my mother walks in, red in the face. She's pissed. She talks to the Vice Principal briefly, and it's time to go.
We get the kitten home, and of course my mom falls in love with him. We clean him up, and start him on some kitten milk. He's friendly, and loves affection, and the household in general falls in love with this kitten. A few weeks later, he dips his paw into my soda, and licks it. And loved it. So I named him Cola (he has a much longer, secret name, that is now mine to remember, and mine alone). A few more weeks, and it's time to have him neutered. I didn't want this to happen at all, as I know it can change a cats personality. So I made my dad take him, while I stayed home. When it was time to pick him up, I made sure I was the one that he saw first, so he would know who saved him, yet again. From that point on, he was skittish and shy with everyone but me. He would dart from room to room only when needed, staying mostly in my room, snuggling with me while I played video games, and curling in the crook of my arm when I slept. Getting ready for school, he would perch on my top bunk, and jump onto my backpack in a clear attempt to prevent me from leaving. He was MY cat. The house was a multiple-cat home, and I did acquire more feline friends, but this is not their story.
After graduating High School, Cola went through his first move, into the apartment I shared with Steven, my first real boyfriend, and Brynna. Brynna was a sweetly insane person at the time, but she was loud. All the time. And she smoked in the apartment, even though Steven gets nauseous at the smell of cigarette smoke, and I had two cats. Less than a year later, Brynna moved out, thankfully putting an end to the health risk she posed. Cola never warmed up to her, understandably. But Steven he took an almost instant liking too. At first it seemed he wouldn't as he acted annoyed at having to share daddy's bed with someone else. But as the months went by, he showed Steven as much affection as he did with me. Steven wasn't working at the time, so they had plenty of time to become friends.
Then we moved in with Mike and Monica. Cola warmed to neither of them (mostly because Monica was always home, and she was louder and more obnoxious than even Brynna. Mike is a big guy, tall and strong-looking, but sweeter than sweet. Still Cola never took to him.) After that, San Diego, our first apartment was with Stevie's mother, his sister, and his brother-in-law. Stevie's entire family is loud and boisterous, and subsequently he never took to them either. Our second apartment, with the new roommate, Chris. Steven and I had recently ended our romantic relationship, and decided on separate rooms. To my dismay, Cola chose to mainly bunk with Steven. After a few months, he started to come around a bit more, and eventually he cautiously took to Chris.
Coming home one night, after some shopping and hanging out, the three of us got home, and Cola was acting drunk. He couldn't walk, or make eye contact (he loved eye contact), and he wobbled even when sitting still. Frantically, I call a friend of mine, and they drop what they are doing to drive me to the closest emergency room we knew of. A few hours later, I find out that he had overdosed on the de-wormer I treated them with the day before, getting the other cat's dosage hidden in canned food. Almost a thousand well-spent dollars later, and my boy was back home.
This is eleven years from the time I met him. It is now that I realize I spent those eleven years focused on him, putting my well-being far down the list in comparison with my own. He had spent eleven years with me, unconditionally loving me, and always being there, whether I needed him to be or not. His habit of curling up with me while I played video games had never gone away, it was one of his favorite things. He would lay there and fall asleep purring so hard he vibrated more than my PS2's Dualshock controller. The way I play games lying on my side, is a habit I formed to accommodate his wishes. Sleeping with the door open so he could come and go as he pleases. Walking in the front door quietly, so as not to startle him, and sitting cross-legged in my computer chair so he always had the lap he wanted. I am sitting this way now. His brush with death put all this into my mind, and while I had always known I loved and cherished him, I didn't realize how deeply he had become a major focus of my life. He had never been sick before, and had never needed any special treatment before that day. He was always hardy and hale, healthy and easygoing. He seemed immortal.
Last October, in the third San Diego apartment, I noticed his breathing had become fast and a little labored. A few hours of googling led me to believe it was fairly serious, an indication of lung cancer. Days later, he was seeing the doctor for the second time in his life. She noticed a heart murmur. X-rays revealed his heart to be eight to nine times the normal size, and misshapen. I take him to a heart specialist, who after some ultrasounds and more x-rays, diagnoses him with Hypertropic Cardiomyopathy, or, in layman's terms, and enlarged, misshapen heart. what had been simple concern had quickly escalated into a problem. The next three months were a whirlwind of paranoia and medication, him seeing a veterinarian no less than twice a month. Through this all, on the days he wasn't having an emergency (two heart failures, one leading to an oxygen tank session) he was active and playful, and after every visit, he was happier, you could tell he felt better.
Sunday morning, it seemed to be business as usual. I was sitting at my desk, and he would come and go from my lap as he pleased. I hear a knock on my door, and Steven is sitting outside, saying Cola is walking funny, limping. So, I track him down, and get him into my arms, telling Steven to call the E.R. and let them know we are on our way. Fifteen minutes later, and we are there. His forearm had gone numb and cold, he was dragging it around, able to move it, but not use it.
The doctor tells us that he has thrown a blood clot into that arm, and he's in excruciating pain. I tell the vet to dope him up, and then come back to talk to me. We talk about eventualities and outcomes. We talk about quality of life, and likelihood of recovery. As the conversation goes on, it dawns on me what he's trying to say. It's time to put my best friend, the one thing that has been a constant in my life, through good and bad, to rest. I give my pained and reluctant consent.
Steven and Chris waited outside. I forced myself to be there. I had saved his life, and it was my responsibility, to myself, and him, to be there when it ended. Euthanasia is quick and painless, but those few seconds will haunt me to my own deathbed.
I made arrangements for his vehicle, and finally, after hours of this, broke down. I am managing to stay calm and collected for Steven, but I am now a destroyed man. To some he was only a cat, nothing but fur and instinct, but to me, he was my friend, my companion, and my brother. I miss him immensely, finding his hairs around the apartment, now more empty than it was before we moved in. Smelling him in my pillows, where he slept. Seeing his shadow at my side, waiting patiently for my lap to open up, only to see a discarded article of clothing. The food bowl with uneaten food. The SeaLion he would wrestle with after I filled it with catnip.
I know it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, but I will never forgive myself. I know that he's no longer suffering, but I am.
Goodbye, brother. I love you.
As I got near the box, I could hear faint mewling, the sound of hungry and probably cold, kittens. My heart instantly broke. How anyone could abandon kittens, still to this day, confounds me. Gently poking the contents, I found six or seven kittens, only two of them alive. Thinking quickly (or not, I was in Junior High)I removed the cold bodies of the deceased from the box, and covered them with the thick dead grass of the area. I had no time for a proper burial, as home room was due to start shortly. I then emptied my backpack (It was a large number, we had many books to carry, and no lockers. I still have this backpack.) set the books aside, and put the box inside. It was dark and scary, but I knew it would be warmer than being exposed to the rapidly cooling weather. Leaving the backpack unzipped partially to ensure air, I made my way to homeroom.
I quickly let my few friends know about what had happened, and made my way to class. I was nervous. Had they been discovered, they would have been taken away, and immediately put into a shelter. Even then, I knew that shelters in my town was an almost guaranteed death sentence. Mentally willing them to be silent, I proceeded to make my way through my seven-hour day. At lunch, I tried to give them milk, but they were too young to know to lap it up, they hadn't even been weaned yet. It was during this twenty-five minutes of freedom that I got a good look at the two survivors. One was much larger than the other, but they both had similar markings. The larger had more solid white on him and blue eyes, the smaller, more color and yellow eyes. They were both active, but the smaller one less so, and his eyes were sickly. I figured him the runt of the litter. A friend of mine, who was leaving school early that day said she could take one, and I chose to keep the runt. I never saw the other kitten again, and by hearsay, I heard he was shunted between homes a few times before I lost contact with this forgettable chum.
After lunch, I had history with Mrs. Kennedy. A great woman, she was small (she hated the word "short" you would be disciplined if you said it in her class.), and graying at her temples. She was a good teacher, and an animal lover. She had pictures of her dog next to pictures of her kids, and a photo of both her kids and her dog had center place on her desk. I felt safe telling her of the contents of my backpack. She smiled at me, and made a call from the phone next to the door of the classroom, the one reserved for calling the front office. She wrote something on a slip of paper, hung up, and dialed a second time. She laughed, and spoke quietly enough that I couldn't hear her end of the conversation. After just a few moments, she told me to go to the front office, and everything would be taken care of. I was outraged, and devastated that this woman I thought of as a confidant would turn me in so jovially. When I get to the front office, using the short walk and cool air to calm down a bit, the receptionist at the desk smiles at me, and tells me to take a seat in the visitor area, on the other side of the building. After about ten minutes, my mother walks in, red in the face. She's pissed. She talks to the Vice Principal briefly, and it's time to go.
We get the kitten home, and of course my mom falls in love with him. We clean him up, and start him on some kitten milk. He's friendly, and loves affection, and the household in general falls in love with this kitten. A few weeks later, he dips his paw into my soda, and licks it. And loved it. So I named him Cola (he has a much longer, secret name, that is now mine to remember, and mine alone). A few more weeks, and it's time to have him neutered. I didn't want this to happen at all, as I know it can change a cats personality. So I made my dad take him, while I stayed home. When it was time to pick him up, I made sure I was the one that he saw first, so he would know who saved him, yet again. From that point on, he was skittish and shy with everyone but me. He would dart from room to room only when needed, staying mostly in my room, snuggling with me while I played video games, and curling in the crook of my arm when I slept. Getting ready for school, he would perch on my top bunk, and jump onto my backpack in a clear attempt to prevent me from leaving. He was MY cat. The house was a multiple-cat home, and I did acquire more feline friends, but this is not their story.
After graduating High School, Cola went through his first move, into the apartment I shared with Steven, my first real boyfriend, and Brynna. Brynna was a sweetly insane person at the time, but she was loud. All the time. And she smoked in the apartment, even though Steven gets nauseous at the smell of cigarette smoke, and I had two cats. Less than a year later, Brynna moved out, thankfully putting an end to the health risk she posed. Cola never warmed up to her, understandably. But Steven he took an almost instant liking too. At first it seemed he wouldn't as he acted annoyed at having to share daddy's bed with someone else. But as the months went by, he showed Steven as much affection as he did with me. Steven wasn't working at the time, so they had plenty of time to become friends.
Then we moved in with Mike and Monica. Cola warmed to neither of them (mostly because Monica was always home, and she was louder and more obnoxious than even Brynna. Mike is a big guy, tall and strong-looking, but sweeter than sweet. Still Cola never took to him.) After that, San Diego, our first apartment was with Stevie's mother, his sister, and his brother-in-law. Stevie's entire family is loud and boisterous, and subsequently he never took to them either. Our second apartment, with the new roommate, Chris. Steven and I had recently ended our romantic relationship, and decided on separate rooms. To my dismay, Cola chose to mainly bunk with Steven. After a few months, he started to come around a bit more, and eventually he cautiously took to Chris.
Coming home one night, after some shopping and hanging out, the three of us got home, and Cola was acting drunk. He couldn't walk, or make eye contact (he loved eye contact), and he wobbled even when sitting still. Frantically, I call a friend of mine, and they drop what they are doing to drive me to the closest emergency room we knew of. A few hours later, I find out that he had overdosed on the de-wormer I treated them with the day before, getting the other cat's dosage hidden in canned food. Almost a thousand well-spent dollars later, and my boy was back home.
This is eleven years from the time I met him. It is now that I realize I spent those eleven years focused on him, putting my well-being far down the list in comparison with my own. He had spent eleven years with me, unconditionally loving me, and always being there, whether I needed him to be or not. His habit of curling up with me while I played video games had never gone away, it was one of his favorite things. He would lay there and fall asleep purring so hard he vibrated more than my PS2's Dualshock controller. The way I play games lying on my side, is a habit I formed to accommodate his wishes. Sleeping with the door open so he could come and go as he pleases. Walking in the front door quietly, so as not to startle him, and sitting cross-legged in my computer chair so he always had the lap he wanted. I am sitting this way now. His brush with death put all this into my mind, and while I had always known I loved and cherished him, I didn't realize how deeply he had become a major focus of my life. He had never been sick before, and had never needed any special treatment before that day. He was always hardy and hale, healthy and easygoing. He seemed immortal.
Last October, in the third San Diego apartment, I noticed his breathing had become fast and a little labored. A few hours of googling led me to believe it was fairly serious, an indication of lung cancer. Days later, he was seeing the doctor for the second time in his life. She noticed a heart murmur. X-rays revealed his heart to be eight to nine times the normal size, and misshapen. I take him to a heart specialist, who after some ultrasounds and more x-rays, diagnoses him with Hypertropic Cardiomyopathy, or, in layman's terms, and enlarged, misshapen heart. what had been simple concern had quickly escalated into a problem. The next three months were a whirlwind of paranoia and medication, him seeing a veterinarian no less than twice a month. Through this all, on the days he wasn't having an emergency (two heart failures, one leading to an oxygen tank session) he was active and playful, and after every visit, he was happier, you could tell he felt better.
Sunday morning, it seemed to be business as usual. I was sitting at my desk, and he would come and go from my lap as he pleased. I hear a knock on my door, and Steven is sitting outside, saying Cola is walking funny, limping. So, I track him down, and get him into my arms, telling Steven to call the E.R. and let them know we are on our way. Fifteen minutes later, and we are there. His forearm had gone numb and cold, he was dragging it around, able to move it, but not use it.
The doctor tells us that he has thrown a blood clot into that arm, and he's in excruciating pain. I tell the vet to dope him up, and then come back to talk to me. We talk about eventualities and outcomes. We talk about quality of life, and likelihood of recovery. As the conversation goes on, it dawns on me what he's trying to say. It's time to put my best friend, the one thing that has been a constant in my life, through good and bad, to rest. I give my pained and reluctant consent.
Steven and Chris waited outside. I forced myself to be there. I had saved his life, and it was my responsibility, to myself, and him, to be there when it ended. Euthanasia is quick and painless, but those few seconds will haunt me to my own deathbed.
I made arrangements for his vehicle, and finally, after hours of this, broke down. I am managing to stay calm and collected for Steven, but I am now a destroyed man. To some he was only a cat, nothing but fur and instinct, but to me, he was my friend, my companion, and my brother. I miss him immensely, finding his hairs around the apartment, now more empty than it was before we moved in. Smelling him in my pillows, where he slept. Seeing his shadow at my side, waiting patiently for my lap to open up, only to see a discarded article of clothing. The food bowl with uneaten food. The SeaLion he would wrestle with after I filled it with catnip.
I know it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, but I will never forgive myself. I know that he's no longer suffering, but I am.
Goodbye, brother. I love you.