Today, January 24, I picked up the ashes of our black male cat, Emerson. Born in New Mexico and the rather pampered pet of two elderly people who could not take him to their nursing home, he found himself in a cattery at a no-kill shelter in Las Cruces and we adopted him. In the cattery he was the cat who immediately jumped up on my lap. He loved everybody and almost anybody; our son in law, our cleaner, our landlord, etc. would find themselves with him on their lap if they sat down any length of time. He was adopted in 2011 after our wonderful cat, Mousenik, was killed by the neighbor’s dogs, one reason, along with bird protection, that, when we moved to Washington state, we kept both our cats inside.
Last week I was told by a veterinarian in Seattle that examination had revealed a lymphoma in his head. Did I want to revive him from anesthesia so that I could have him treated or to say goodbye? Treatment would almost certainly grant him only a few months, and reviving him would continue his reluctance to eat and also continue his other rather alarming symptoms. I told them to euthanize him, as I could not bear his suffering. We had said goodbye the day before when he had actually eaten twice and slept on our bed for about the first time in weeks. In a year of almost constant losses, he became the first of the New Year. His death was a great shock, as he had never been really sick, although he got a tamari almond stuck in his esophagus once and nearly died. This was the result of his apparent policy of checking almost anything he found for edibility, unless it was obviously inedible, such as a rock or a leaf.
Emerson was one of a series of cats we had (all neutered or spayed), starting with two my wife had when we married — Dougal and Porky, and followed by Bete Noir, Magellina, Stormy, Patches, Calliope, Dharma, Neko and Shadow. I like cats, but had never really given my heart to any pet after my first dog, Blackie, died of pneumonia when I was about 9. The trauma of that animal’s death scarred me for much of my life. That changed when my wife found a tiny kitten, still with its eyes unopened, abandoned and caught in our fence at our house in Mesilla Park. She waited for the mother to pick him up, but after an hour or so the cries of the kitten got to her and she asked me to pick up some cat formula. She raised him on the bottle and he became a magnificent animal, smart as a whip (he figured out that doors had to have knobs turned, but lacking opposable thumbs, he was never able to pull it off.) About that time we decided to try and keep our cats in to protect the local birds (Shadow even tried to stalk a turkey vulture). Mostly they killed white-winged doves (about three or four a year), which I hated, but they were in plentiful supply (I once counted over 400 in about three blocks.) However, Mousenik actually tore our screen door open, causing him to tear his chest, and once we allowed him out, Shadow could also not be kept inside. Fortunately Shadow was not a very good hunter. Mousenik died when he jumped a four foot fence to chase doves and was killed by the neighbor’s Boston bulls. He was six years old. Stormy was an abandoned Birman who was dropped at our block apparently because he had crossed eyes. Dharma never warmed up to people so much, but she was a street cat who was starving when we found her. Being a house cat was apparently her dream and once she got inside, she never wanted to go out.
Now we are left with one black and white cat- Peabody- who was also a street cat in Seattle and who is also terrified of leaving the apartment. If a door is opened she heads for under the bed. That is useful as we prefer the cats to stay inside anyway. Calliope is still alive, but lives with our daughter in California.
I really only gave my heart to Mousenik and Emerson, but now they are both gone and I am looking for another indoor cat. COVID-19 has made that difficult, but we will go on with the hunt! I really need a companion animal.