Ok, let me see how this goes. I’ve tried writing this several times, and failed when the emotions just became too overwhelming. Maybe, enough distance now.
This is Roscoe. He was my best friend for 11 years. Now, the realization that a cat had held such a place in my life wasn’t without some consternation and reproach. It speaks to my problems with trust and intimacy with people, predicated on a certain status quo that may not be fundamentally true nor useful, but present nonetheless.
He was as robust and full life as any being I’ve ever known; and then, seemingly overnight, wasting and lethargic and a shadow of himself. This is the unspoken truth of mortality, of life itself: that which animates and enervates us is invisible until it’s not. The desperate measures were undertaken, the quintessentially American solution of expensive medicine pursued — in the end, to no avail. But at least we knew what the problem was: lymphoma. It was conceivable that, with dedication, money, and an egoistic approach, we could extend his stay with us a few months, maybe a year. Alas, he didn’t respond to the medical intervention; refused to eat; struggled to drink. The regimen of pills and potions began to feel cruel. It became self-evident that the merciful and humane thing had become the necessary thing. Our wonderful vet came and helped us end his suffering; it was the most beautiful and heartrending thing I’ve endured in a very long time. I will miss him, perhaps more than words can suffice to say. I will miss his astounding heft, his physical presence going from a nuisance to a comfort, even his insistence on sleeping sidelong between my knees, like having a sack of furry concrete there. He LOVED lap time in the evening, and so did I. His classic Manx build, with jackrabbit hind end, made him the champion leaper, earning the nickname “Mr. Boing.” One year, when he was just a teenager, we had an unusually intense infestation of miller moths, and he (and I) quickly honed our moth slaying skills to a razor’s edge. To his final day, his response to the word “bug” was instantaneous and enthusiastic — and forget trying to sleep if he discovered one on his own in the night; it was required that you get up and participate in neutralizing the intruder. He got in trouble once for leaving the yard; he never left it again. I trimmed his claws when they got unwieldy once; from then on, he would studiously manicure them himself to avoid the indignity. Or, he just was a very, very good boy, who just wanted to get along and do the right thing. Beyond all the endearing mundanities, what I’ll miss most about my furry orange friend is the friendship itself, the unbridled love we had for each other, transcending our alienness and the supposed hierarchy of our consciousness. There is a doorway through to the deepest and best parts of ourselves and our world that can only be opened by our love for our pets — and for opening that door for me, I have nothing but eternal gratitude.
Thank you, Roscoe.
