To My Friend Sylvester...

I will really, really miss my cat. I never thought of him as my cat until the kids all left home and then there could be no doubt as to who he hung out with. There was no choice left. Elisabeth never let him sit on her lap or crawl up on her shoulder while she snoozed in front of the TV. She fed him often as not and cleaned out his litter box more than I did but when it came to companionship I was the go-to guy. The only guy left to go to.
The job of hooking him up under my arm and putting him down in his little padded box each evening fell to me. Cajoling him out of the screen door into the cold so he could get a little air was my job. Brushing him and cutting out the knots in his long, fine, volumous fur was my job and it meant getting scratched and bit a lot because he hated anyone grooming him. He could live with knots of fur the size of ping pong balls and he shed twice his weight of fur each day (or so it seemed-fur covered every rug, every piece of furniture, every article of clothing…)but he would not tolerate a brushing. Over the years I got him used to a little grooming but mostly he hated the brush and he loathed the nail clippers.

For many years he had a friend-Garth-a pure white short hair-and the pair grew up from kitten-hood in our newly built home. Garth passed on a number of years ago and Sylvester took up the slack, so to speak, relishing the attention of the whole family. We tried bringing another cat into the house but he would not tolerate any other cat hogging up his limelight. For a year he did put up with Pebbles the rat terrier who belonged to Benny and we were all very surprised that he did so. We chalked it up to his advancing age and resignation that he couldn’t boss a dog three times his size into submission. Pebbles also had an indomitable spirit and mostly got along with every one and every thing, including Sylvester. When Ben moved and took Pebbles to Colorado Sylvester owned the house again and he maintained his routine almost right up to the end.

To wit: wake up early (before our alarm at 5:15) and start moaning from his bed in the basement. Clearly announcing that he was ready for breakfast. Sit on the steps and wait impatiently while Elisabeth or I spoon out the canned food and open the ‘cat door’ so he can come up and eat. Eat half a can of food and climb up onto the bench at the table to accompany Liz and I while we eat breakfast. His head at breakfast and lunch and dinner just peeking over the table top, sniffing the meal but never getting on the table itself. That would have caused him to receive a healthy smack, and he knew it. After breakfast repair to the living room and lie on the bay window or the sofa and snooze all day. Alternate sleeping areas included the little couch in the den or the kitchen bench or, sometimes, back down to the bed-in-the-box on top of the ceramics kiln in the basement. As he got on in years he went outside less and less. Most days he slept all day long. He would follow me around from room to room after I got home from work until he got his supper and after a few minutes to eat his dinner (the other half a can of food) he would wait for me in the living room until I was done with my own meal and spend the evening sleeping on my lap/back/shoulder/ leg/ etc. When the TV and the lights were turned off he let me carry him down to the basement and put him in the box. Thus beginning the cycle afresh.

I said “he maintained his routine almost right up to the end” because in the last couple of months his physical condition began to deteriorate and he began to show signs of age. His self grooming became even more erratic. He was less and less able to jump or climb up on the furniture or bay window. There were times when his hind legs failed him for a few moments and he had to collect himself to get his balance back. He slept 23 ½ hours a day and moved only to eat, poop and climb up on me in the evening. Often he was in the same spot for 8 or 10 hours sleeping peacefully. I was happy that he was comfortable and looking forward to his twentieth birthday in July. And then a couple of days ago his legs failed him completely.

His new condition left him dragging himself in circles with his front paws. He cried in frustration and could no longer get to his food, the litter box or up on his favorite perches. His beautiful red fur grew dull and matted and he began to smell of his uncontrollable body functions. To eat I had to hold him over the bowl and he hung his head down and lapped. He didn’t seem to want water even when I held him that way over the water bowl. I tried to hold him over the litter but he struggled to get away when I did. The only times he seemed contented was when he was in my lap or at night when I left him in his familiar ‘box’ in the basement.

I stayed home from work today, and after his breakfast I held him in my lap for a while. I looked for a sign in his face that would tell me what I already knew I had to do. There was no sign. I am sure someone else might have seen an old, old, filthy cat in my lap. To me he looked just the same in his beautiful face as that little kitten that came to live with us so many years ago. This is the only home he has ever known and now he is buried in a little grave near his old friend Garth. There is nothing else to say except that I love ya Sylvester and I will really, really miss you.