It begins each day before dawn with a thump on the end of the bed. I feel the pressure of his footsteps as he inches closer to my face. I hear his purr. I pretend to be asleep as he tries to will me upright with his hungry, determined stare. We play this game for about an hour. Me pretending he’s not there, him patiently waiting for the alarm that signals treats and a full bowl of food. I get out of bed and he leads me to the kitchen. His feline pal follows behind me in case I get lost on the way. Yes, cats are herding animals.
When we adopted him, they told us he had a problem using his litter box. What they failed to warn us about is that he would capture our hearts like no other. This despite the fact that he regularly pukes on us, our shoes, our clothes, our bed, our furniture, our rugs, our floors, our papers, our books, our phones, and our computers. He goes out of his way to sneeze directly into our faces. He knocks things off every horizontal surface. He relocates the contents of his litter box to the floor several times a day. He performs a similar ritual with his water bowl. He chews the leaves on every houseplant. He relentlessly demands petting, scratching, and spanking. He opens cabinets and drawers and rummages through their contents. He kneads me with razor sharp claws. He bats ornaments off the Christmas tree each year. He sheds so much his hair forms fur tumbleweeds. And yes, he pees (and occasionally poops) on our bed, sometimes when we’re in it.
If a human did even half of these things, I would probably hate him or her. And I certainly wouldn’t invite that person to move in. But it’s different with him, because he runs to greet me at the door when I come home. He follows me around the house wherever I go—my mundane activities are endlessly fascinating to him. He lies patiently on my desk for hours watching me work—prodding me to take regular breaks. He curls up in my lap when I watch TV—purring so loudly I have to turn up the volume. He pulls groceries out of shopping bags so that he can play with the empty bag. He waits for me on the bathmat while I’m in the shower. He bravely endures the terror of the hair dryer just to be near me while I dry my hair. He stares at me to signal that it’s time to go to bed at night. And sometimes, he even comes when I call him.
He is our friend, companion, and confidant. Unlike a person, he is never too busy for us. He is never angry, bitter, or resentful. He doesn’t hold grudges. He never yells or speaks harshly. So when he got sick, we cared for him. When he got sicker, we cared for him even more. And when he got too sick, we held him as he took his last breath. The incredible Dr. Meg aided his transition from this life. She treated him and us with the utmost compassion.
Rocky, it was our privilege to know your gentle soul. You taught us persistence, compassion, patience, understanding, loyalty, and the joy of a good nap. Goodbye, friend. We loved you to the end and then some.
Rita and Steve Harris
Tustin