He was a month shy of his 21st birthday, old for a cat, all of us know. I've written about him before, how he was beta to his brother, Monk, how, after a period of mourning after Monk died, he blossomed, taking over the house.
He has had some medical crises over the last few years and we thought we had lost him a year ago, but somehow he rebounded. Yet, his decline has been slow and consistent, his mobility issues worsening, his litter box issues worsening, too. We often had to clean him as you would a baby, except this baby had claws and teeth and did not always like it.
I came home yesterday and Denise told me his right back leg was swollen as was his foot. The limb was cool to the touch so the problem was probably not infection, but something more dire. Our vet texted us to take him to the ER right away. Just before we left, I cradled him and cleaned his face where some leftover food remained. He looked at me as he always did like, Okay, Ian, I'll let you if you must. On the ride to the ER, he sat in Denise's lap, calmly, his head pressed against her chest.
The vet's diagnosis was some kind of heart disease that had thrown a clot into the artery leading to his back legs. That was the immediate cause of the swelling. Also, fluid in the chest and stomach. The vet told us these situations were very painful and that it was time. We would not let our boy suffer one unnecessary moment even if it meant being with him for less than another moment we might have had.
When they gave him the first injection, he seemed surprised by whatever he was feeling. His eyes opened a little, he started, and he reached out with his paw, putting it on my hand. Then he was unconscious. I'm sure the gesture was involuntary, a result of the drug, but I'd like to take a little solace that in the last moment, as Denise stroked his head and told him how much we loved him, that he was reaching out to me one last time.
It was a very tough night without him. At all times we expected to see him sleeping on his mat or up and moving around, eating from his buffet of foods, dipping into his fountain, coming over to the sofa, and expecting us to come over with him. Instead, an absence. And silence -- that may be the hardest thing.
I became a cat person because of Denise. I grew to love the cats we had. For so many years our singular focus has been Harry and Blackie (gone 20 years), and then Monk (gone 9 years), and now Mingus (has it only been 15 hours?). We structured our lives around them; all of them so dear to us.
Elegy
(for Mingus 2001-2022)
Mingus is dead
and you will tell me
Mingus died in 1979--
am I only getting around
to mourning him now?
Did I just discover "Good Bye,
Pork Pie Hat" last Tuesday?
And I will say
our little black
short-haired cat Mingus--
that's who's gone.
He was always too clumsy
for jazz, and his idea
of collective improvisation
was to jump on my lap,
but he had the kind of spark
that a bassman like Charlie M
might have liked.
At home, I cannot go
six feet in any direction
without seeing him staring out
green-eyed and waiting from a picture
on the wall. (Yes, I am one
of those types.) His face
is the face
of my social media feeds,
through him I speak
the politics of the moment.
His face adorns mugs
and shirts and towels
and blankets and six
other pieces some Etsy artist
made for me. (I told you.)
For all this, you may think me
a little crazed
and that's okay.
Who among us
has not been made insane
by the 3 a.m. yowls
of elderly fear?
Who among us
will not have
to nursemaid the sick
at the end of their lives?
Mingus is still
with me and I remember him
in his prime, racing,
always racing. Chasing
a ball, batting a catnip toy.
Somewhere he is running,
any minute to return,
coming down the stairs,
crying out for his treat.
Sunday, Mar 27, 2022 · 7:54:41 PM +00:00
·
ibar88
Thank you for the many kind comments. We have been packing up his things and giving them away to the CatCafe in Los Angeles where it will all be put to good use. We still think we see him, though it was a folded towel in one instance, and a backpack in another. Because in his last months, he was up so frequently, we are used to being up at all hours of the night, and my wife and I were up at 1:30 and then at 4 checking to see if he was all right. Of course, you know. Nothing to check. Banal to say that time is the great healer, but time is what it’s going to take.