So my Grandma died last August and I inherited her orange cat, Buddy. I wanted her cat. With my grandma, he always acted like he was responsible for her. He woke her up for breakfast, walked her to the bathroom. If he'd had thumbs and been taller, he'd have helped her get dressed and combed her hair.
When I was there, I tried to comb out the knots in his fur. Even though I could tell when it began to hurt, he let me finish and purred a 'thank you' when I was done. Buddy was more than the service cat he'd trained himself to be. When I talked about my grandma to him, he looked at me as if he understood, as if he could say "Of course I help her. I love her." I'm putting words into his mouth, I know, but how else could I define that look?
So the last time I visited my grandma, I called Buddy's veterinarian. He came out, offered me a prescription for a sedative for traveling, told me that Buddy had a heart murmur, possibly colon cancer, and that he might not survive the trip home. My dad died of colon cancer and my grandpa died of heart disease. Is there awful irony in that, or what?
He didn't have fun, but he made it home and was quiet on the plane. Then, the poor guy had to get used to my son's pushy cat, Seth, and a set of noisy kids. At first, Seth, hissed through the door and tried to swat him by sticking his paw under the door, claws extended. But now they romp through the rooms at night, knocking things over and waking me up.
I was a mess after I got back. My grandma had been the one who loved me best. You know, the one you try to be like, who you want to look like when you get old. I couldn't keep track of making my son's lunch, getting to appointments I'd made, putting two words together. Believe me, you don't want to get volunteered to write an article for the local newspaper when you're grieving.
After three weeks, I took Buddy to my vet. He'd been throwing up daily and bleeding into the litter box. It was so gross, I had to let my son off from that duty. I wanted Buddy to get settled in, but the words heart murmur and cancer kept echoing in my mind.
My vet said that the heart murmur was worrisome and that I should go to a specialist, that since he was only six, she'd like to really know what was going on. After spending most of our vacation money on procedures and consultations, the specialist told me that Buddy had congestive heart failure. There was no cure. She gave him six months to a year to live and said there was nothing I could do except try to make him comfortable and maybe extend his life with some medications. They're some of the same medicines my brother takes - Plavix, Lasix, Atenalol, and Enalapril. They're not exactly cheap either. My husband and I fought over it, but I think he knew not to mess with a woman's grief.
So my new buddy came with an expiration date. At first, my son didn't even want to touch him because he was going to die anyway and the blood and puke grossed him out. You can't argue with that. My husband tried not to like Buddy either because he'd cost him a vacation. So Buddy latched onto me. I like to think that maybe, in some small way, I remind him of my grandma.
When I get home, Buddy walks slowly in front of me. His message is that I need to sit down. I sit, get arranged with a blanket and pillow on my lap, and pat it to tell him to jump on up. He lies on the pillow and purrs over nothing. He loves having his head rubbed and when I've got my phone or a book, he demands two hands until I've scratched and rubbed and hugged him just enough. Then, I settle in to read and mindlessly pet him with just one hand. At that point, Buddy rolls over exposing a white polka-dotted bellly and pats me on the face. When he makes eye contact, I can feel his love. It is a deep love in those eyes. Then I succumb to total cuteness, put down my book and rub him all over again. When I settle back into mindless rubbing, he jumps off, walks around for a bit, and starts the process all over again.
He's at my feet right now, crying like a kitten. Did I tell you that he sounds pathetic when he does this? He reminds me to give him his pills twice a day with his baby cry and a very solemn look. He has pathetic cuteness down cold. What do you say about a cat that comes running to get petted whenever anyone sits down on the toilet? That's what won my husband over. He'd come running from the farthest reaches of the house when he heard that lid tap the tank. Imagine a couple of years of living with a woman who couldn't reach down to pet you and you know how Buddy came up with that one. He even used pathetic cuteness to win Seth over. Whenever Seth rolls him over, Buddy just lays there waiting for him to let go, now and then mewing like a kitten. What else can he do? He's about the same size as Seth, but not nearly as strong.
At Christmas, Buddy latched onto a cardboard box only half-filled with styrofoam popcorn. Under his weight, the box has begun to sag in the middle, tear at the corners, and generally look pathetic. This is where he sits when I'm at home but not holding up my end of the bargain by sitting in the recliner. Buddy has lots of nicknames, Pitty Pat, Sweet Baby, and Orange Cat. When he's on the box, we call him Ghetto Kitty. He doesn't bother with looks of reproach. The box does that by itself.
So here I am working on my new blog. Ghetto Kitty has given up lying at my feet and has retreated to his box. There is a cost to everything and the cost of this blog is losing that time with my Buddy. I just hope when he really reaches his expiration date, that he is full, of chin rubs, of hugs, of deep searching eye contact that tells him that I love him and I always will.
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Thank you for listening, jb
When I was there, I tried to comb out the knots in his fur. Even though I could tell when it began to hurt, he let me finish and purred a 'thank you' when I was done. Buddy was more than the service cat he'd trained himself to be. When I talked about my grandma to him, he looked at me as if he understood, as if he could say "Of course I help her. I love her." I'm putting words into his mouth, I know, but how else could I define that look?
So the last time I visited my grandma, I called Buddy's veterinarian. He came out, offered me a prescription for a sedative for traveling, told me that Buddy had a heart murmur, possibly colon cancer, and that he might not survive the trip home. My dad died of colon cancer and my grandpa died of heart disease. Is there awful irony in that, or what?
He didn't have fun, but he made it home and was quiet on the plane. Then, the poor guy had to get used to my son's pushy cat, Seth, and a set of noisy kids. At first, Seth, hissed through the door and tried to swat him by sticking his paw under the door, claws extended. But now they romp through the rooms at night, knocking things over and waking me up.
I was a mess after I got back. My grandma had been the one who loved me best. You know, the one you try to be like, who you want to look like when you get old. I couldn't keep track of making my son's lunch, getting to appointments I'd made, putting two words together. Believe me, you don't want to get volunteered to write an article for the local newspaper when you're grieving.
After three weeks, I took Buddy to my vet. He'd been throwing up daily and bleeding into the litter box. It was so gross, I had to let my son off from that duty. I wanted Buddy to get settled in, but the words heart murmur and cancer kept echoing in my mind.
My vet said that the heart murmur was worrisome and that I should go to a specialist, that since he was only six, she'd like to really know what was going on. After spending most of our vacation money on procedures and consultations, the specialist told me that Buddy had congestive heart failure. There was no cure. She gave him six months to a year to live and said there was nothing I could do except try to make him comfortable and maybe extend his life with some medications. They're some of the same medicines my brother takes - Plavix, Lasix, Atenalol, and Enalapril. They're not exactly cheap either. My husband and I fought over it, but I think he knew not to mess with a woman's grief.
So my new buddy came with an expiration date. At first, my son didn't even want to touch him because he was going to die anyway and the blood and puke grossed him out. You can't argue with that. My husband tried not to like Buddy either because he'd cost him a vacation. So Buddy latched onto me. I like to think that maybe, in some small way, I remind him of my grandma.
When I get home, Buddy walks slowly in front of me. His message is that I need to sit down. I sit, get arranged with a blanket and pillow on my lap, and pat it to tell him to jump on up. He lies on the pillow and purrs over nothing. He loves having his head rubbed and when I've got my phone or a book, he demands two hands until I've scratched and rubbed and hugged him just enough. Then, I settle in to read and mindlessly pet him with just one hand. At that point, Buddy rolls over exposing a white polka-dotted bellly and pats me on the face. When he makes eye contact, I can feel his love. It is a deep love in those eyes. Then I succumb to total cuteness, put down my book and rub him all over again. When I settle back into mindless rubbing, he jumps off, walks around for a bit, and starts the process all over again.
He's at my feet right now, crying like a kitten. Did I tell you that he sounds pathetic when he does this? He reminds me to give him his pills twice a day with his baby cry and a very solemn look. He has pathetic cuteness down cold. What do you say about a cat that comes running to get petted whenever anyone sits down on the toilet? That's what won my husband over. He'd come running from the farthest reaches of the house when he heard that lid tap the tank. Imagine a couple of years of living with a woman who couldn't reach down to pet you and you know how Buddy came up with that one. He even used pathetic cuteness to win Seth over. Whenever Seth rolls him over, Buddy just lays there waiting for him to let go, now and then mewing like a kitten. What else can he do? He's about the same size as Seth, but not nearly as strong.
At Christmas, Buddy latched onto a cardboard box only half-filled with styrofoam popcorn. Under his weight, the box has begun to sag in the middle, tear at the corners, and generally look pathetic. This is where he sits when I'm at home but not holding up my end of the bargain by sitting in the recliner. Buddy has lots of nicknames, Pitty Pat, Sweet Baby, and Orange Cat. When he's on the box, we call him Ghetto Kitty. He doesn't bother with looks of reproach. The box does that by itself.
So here I am working on my new blog. Ghetto Kitty has given up lying at my feet and has retreated to his box. There is a cost to everything and the cost of this blog is losing that time with my Buddy. I just hope when he really reaches his expiration date, that he is full, of chin rubs, of hugs, of deep searching eye contact that tells him that I love him and I always will.
Thank you for listening, jb
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