Way back in 2003, when I was one year out of college, I
received a large enough raise at work that would allow me to afford an
apartment on my own (in Boston at the time). So I happily bid farewell to the
house I had been sharing with four roommates and got my very own one-bedroom
apartment, which I still mark as my first big grown-up decision.
Not long after moving into that place, I made my second big
grown-up decision to become the only kind of parent I would ever want to be,
and adopted two three-month old kittens; a brother and sister pair who I named
Capote (after author Truman Capote) and Moneypenny (after the secretary from
the James Bond movies). And my Grinch heart grew three sizes that day as I
instantly fell in love with my little furballs, crazy cat lady stereotypes be
damned.
After an initial tentative warming up phase, they both
turned into hyper affection bundles of unconditional love. I tried to train
them not to sleep on my bed with me in a futile effort to keep everything
single thing I owned from being covered in cat hair, but wherever I was, that’s
where they wanted to be, and they would not be denied nighttime snuggles. Even
on the occasions where I would soak in the bathtub they would hang out on the
bathroom floor, calmly waiting for me to relocate to a place where they could
easily crawl all over me.
As they got older, Capote grew into a normal-proportioned
cat and eventually got too big to comfortably be in my lap (not that it stops
him from still trying at times). But Moneypenny kept her dainty figure and
kitten-like look, coupled with her chirpy high-pitched “meow” that she employed
often as the chattier of the two. Throughout her entire life I don’t think she
ever weighed more than 9 pounds, making it easy to scoop her up one-handed,
where she would then cling to my shoulder like a monkey to be carried around.
Over the years we went through a lot together. A move from
Boston to New York City that introduced a new human into their daily routine as
I shared a place with my college roommate. After 8 years there, I uprooted us
for a brief stint in Washington, DC, then to Chicago, which I drove to over two
days, giving the fuzz twins their one and only taste of hotel living (it was
well-received, even though I wouldn’t let them raid the minibar). Then in
Chicago I met Remus, who quickly became a regular fixture in my apartment, and
they easily warmed up to him; most surprising from Moneypenny, who was always
wary of strangers.
And then came the big test: cohabitating with Remus and his
cat, Ara, who was used to being an only child. After a tenuous few months, the
three animals settled into what I would call a state of begrudging acceptance.
We liked to joke about how our pets outnumbered us, referring to our home as “the
zoo,” but it was a good balance. Ara (the oldest cat) was the cranky grandma,
Capote was the independent guy, and Moneypenny, with her almost comically small
stature, was the baby.
Not long after moving in together, we noticed that
Moneypenny seemed to be constipated. A trip to the vet gave us the suggestion
of a high-fiber diet and some over the counter meds we could try. But the
problem never went away, reoccurring many times for the next year and a half
despite many vet visits, different diets, and various medications. It was
finally suggested that we take her to a veterinary surgeon for a consult, where
we learned that she had a perineal hernia. Without hesitation I agreed to the
surgery to correct it, and after an overnight stay brought home my poor
girl--who had lost almost half her body weight throughout this ordeal--with a
completely shaved backside, a cone of shame around her head, and a strict
regimen of drugs to be administered.
When she was clearly backed up again a few days after her
hernia surgery we had to take her back to the surgeon, where the news this time
wasn’t nearly as simple. A neurological disorder that was causing her digestive
tract to not work properly was suspected, and a trip to another animal hospital
to get her an MRI was suggested as an option, but when I choked out the
difficult question of if we got the MRI and it was indeed a neurological
malfunction, was there anything that could be done for her, the harsh answer
was no.
“If she were human, we would give her a colostomy bag,” our
sympathetic surgeon explained, “but, unfortunately, she’s a cat.”
So, just a couple of months shy of her 13th
birthday, Remus and I made the heartbreaking decision to have Moneypenny put to
sleep. We had both had beloved childhood dogs put down, but this was the first
time either of us were on the front line to make the call and be there when it
happened. We jointly sat with her in the hospital room, saying final goodbyes
while she contently purred in my arms. I always knew I wouldn’t have it in me to
hold either of my cats as they were put down, but Remus was adamant that the
last thing Moneypenny saw was one of us, so while I sat in the car sobbing he
stayed with my kitty girl as she slipped away, an gesture so selfless and
loving that I’ll never forget it.
Logical pet owners know going in that they will (hopefully)
outlive their animals and eventually have to make hard choices at the end, but knowing
doesn’t make it any easier when the time comes. Losing Moneypenny feels just
like losing any other beloved family member, and while we always joked that
three cats was too many, two doesn’t feel complete (but no, we will not be
getting another any time soon). Bedtime is the hardest; whenever I would crawl
within the sheets she would hop up within seconds, no matter where she was
hanging out, eager to snuggle up and incrementally push me to the far edge of
the bed as the night progressed. Now I can stretch out and take up my full half
of the mattress, and it sucks.
But life goes on, and every day hurts a little less. Ara
never liked the new female intruder, so she’s not fazed, and Capote doesn’t
seem to be behaving differently now that his sister is gone. A nearly 13-year
run isn’t too bad for a pet, which I have to keep reminding myself, and
ultimately Moneypenny was loved deeply by someone who doesn’t love easily or
often, so I hope she felt that in the end, as best as a cat can feel anything.
RIP, little one. Thank you for making my early grown-up
years a lot warmer and exceptionally fuzzy.
No comments:
Post a Comment