Eighteen Years of Love

We brought our old cat, Bugsy, home from the vets on the third. They called every day, several times, during his four days there, to update us on his condition. Finally they realized that there was nothing more they could do for him and we knew that the days ahead would be filled with pain. The decision seemed obvious to us. Perhaps it was obvious, but it is never easy. We have been through this many times before, but it never gets easier. As some wise person said to me as I was struggling with this, "It doesn't get easier because it is love."

Through my tears I am remembering how Bugsy came to us, an abandoned six-week old kitten, surviving on grasshoppers on our land south on Cascade Road. It was October and the bugs would soon come to an end. We were staying in our camper, one last time before the winter. We took him back to the Cities, knowing that in a year or two he would have to make the trip back with us to our retirement home in the Black Hills.

He never complained - through eight moves - including our flight from the flames during the Alabaugh Fire of 2007 - until we finally settled in this last home in 2008. We chose this house for him and our other cat. It had several great windows for sunning and watching birds and other critters. It had a sound basement for the litter boxes. We never considered buying a house that did not favor our cats.

He was good - never clawing furniture - careful to retract his claws when jumping on our laps. and always eager for food, never forgetting his early starvation years of abandonment in the woods.

It was only in the past few months that he began to howl many times during the day. It puzzled us, and annoyed us - especially early in the morning - but I remember my other cat yowling during his last few months of his elderly life. Perhaps there was an onset of some physical discomfort, or, I like to believe, that these treasured pets knew that they would be leaving us and wanted somehow to remind us not to forget them when they left.

How can you forget eighteen years of purring, rubbing, insisting on lap time and the sight of him licking his face and paws most carefully after each meal, curling up and lying in the sunshine of an eastern window? Then, during the day, somehow, when the sun was moving through its cycle, old Bugsy would follow the sunshine to the southern window, and finally, late in the day, I would find him curled up in my office in the sunshine of the window facing west.

We brought him home from the vets for his last two days, fed him all his favorite foods, gave him his painkillers and extensive lap time and had the vet put him down yesterday while he was curled up on my lap

Bob buried him over flowers and catnip in the garden closest to his favorite window where he would sit and watch the birds, squirrels and occasional cats, deer and wild turkeys that stopped at the bird bath or feeders. As we covered him with the garden earth I listened to the birds who had flown to safety overhead as we said our final goodbye to the cat who had given us so many years of furry comfort, trust and acceptance.

Today, as I do my household tasks, I look at his favorite spots, see him stretched out or curled in a ball, and I remember.