Simian Farmer: Sufferin' succotash

My wife got an Email just yesterday from my stepmum that one of their two cats, Jeff, passed away earlier this week. He and his sister, Mutt, had just recently passed their 17th birthdays. That's pretty darned venerable for a feline.

Jeff, for most of his life, was close to 9 kilos (or about 20 pounds) with a belly that swayed under him when he walked. For the past number of months, whenever Amy and I have been over at their house, he's been a recumbent bonerack, weighing in at about a third of his healthy weight. Stepmum had to hand feed him cooked shrimp for the past while even to get him to eat anything. It was his time and I don't doubt that his sister Mutt will be too far behind him. They came from the same litter.

This has reminded me strongly of the passing of my own cat, Blitzen, about 5 or 6 years ago. He had been a lifelong companion up to then. And he made a fairly memorable entrance when he came.

It was Christmas eve, just a couple years after the family had moved to Edmonton from Ontario. My brother and I were in our pyjamas and were gathered around the Christmas tree in the living room with Mom and Dad, soon to go to bed. The doorbell rang. Who comes calling on Christmas eve, this late at night?

Santa. That's who.

Mom told me to go get the door, which I did with a little trepidation. As I opened the front door, I was completely flummoxed to see a large, fat man standing on the other side of the screen door, dressed from head to toe in a red suit. It was, without a doubt, Santa Claus. Reacting in the only way I could, I promptly slammed the door in his face and ran back to the living room, shouting to my mother that Santa was at the door. In a state of mind much more composed than mine, she suggested that I go back to the front door and let Santa in.

With my heart in my throat, I did this. Santa had come to hand-deliver a gift to my brother and me. It was a special gift, deserving more attention than simply being placed under the Christmas tree. As he made himself comfortable in our living room, as comfortable as he could be under the unblinking gaze of two young boys, he presented to us a small gift. A very small gift. At first glance, it appeared to be a ball of black fuzz. Upon closer inspection, it revealed itself to have two eyes and a dainty pink tongue. It was a kitten, not more than old enough to be just freshly weaned from its mother.

Well! This was just about the best thing that could have happened to us that night! As Santa made his goodbyes, not wanting to disappoint the rest of the world's boys and girls, we were left with the task that night, before heading to bed, to name that small bundle. It was fairly simple. I don't recall who picked the name that night; I'm pretty sure it wasn't me. Who delivered him? Santa. So what shall we name him? Well, after one of his reindeer, of course. So 'Blitzen' joined our household for the next 17 years.

We had many other pet cats come and go over the course of the next decade and a half. Some ran away. Some were given away. But Blitzen was a constant. His loss after a wasting sickness was very hard to take. He'd always hated to go the vet and fought every time we took him in the car. We'd have to wrap him up snugly in a towel in the house before-hand, and transporting him to the vet was a always a two person job. One to drive, and the other to contain the feline fury from being unleashed in the confines of a car.

The night we decided that it would be best to put him down, my mother and I drove him to the vet. We brought a large towel with us but ended up not needing it. He sat complacently on my lap as we drove in silence to the clinic that night. It was the only time he had ever done that. I'm convinced he knew, and was relieved.

I don't think the loss of another pet will ever affect me as much as losing my first cat did.