August 1, 2014

I moved to Austin from Longview, Texas in 2003. I didn’t know one single person as a friend, casual acquaintance, or family member. Fresh out of college, I received a career-building job offer which ended with “when can you start”. One week later I was on a one-way trip to the capital of Texas. Everything I owned was crammed in my car and the back of my parents suburban, with a mattress strapped to the roof. I signed a year lease on a third-floor apartment, my first place to live with no roommates or family. I worked downtown in an office facing the Texas Capitol, parallel parked more in one week than I had my entire driving life (if I was lucky to find a spot), and learned to navigate the maze of one-way streets. I remember my first week of work, going for a coffee run, staring up at the skyscrapers surrounding me on Congress Avenue and thinking to myself, “I finally made it.” But after a year of going through the same routine which consisted of the morning commute of battling I-35 traffic, staying late at the office because I didn’t want to be in rush-hour traffic for hours (okay, because I didn’t have a life), Gold’s Gym workout or Pilates class, usually something random and easy for dinner washed down with a mindless show/DVD before falling asleep. I diverted from the mundane routine occasionally, but my “friends” were usually co-workers at happy hour, some budding relationships from the church I attended, but no one truly involved in my life. I started feeling like I was caught in the movie, Groundhogs Day, I started feeling lonely.

So I decided to get a feline friend.

I wanted to adopt a cat from a shelter or someone giving one away, but my search took longer than I thought because Austin has strict policies and steep fees related to adopting a rescue pet (including requests for home visits to make sure my living conditions were cat-worthy). I was so ignorant to think someone would just post a “kittens, free to a good home” ad, or that I would drive to a shelter, pick out an adorable furball, and drive home a cat owner. With the “free kittens” dream quickly eradicated after visiting three shelters, my new goal was to adopt a cat for less than $100, avoid the need to take off work for home visits and being strip-searched by the rigorous screening process. During the wait for my feline friend, I purchased a bag of kitty food, a pet taxi, some cat toys, and a litter box, all waiting patiently to be put to use. Finally I learned of a guy in Elgin, about 30 minutes outside of Austin, who kept stray/unwanted cats in a shed in his backyard. He told me on the phone that he was moving soon, and the 30+ cats he took care of would go to a shelter and most likely be euthanized if not adopted right away because of the numbers. His adoption fee was only $60 which included already having the cat fixed and vaccinated, plus a free bag of kitty food. I placed my patient pet carrier in the passengers seat and drove to Elgin.

It was a chilly February night, and I wasn’t sure what to expect as I drove down a bumpy country road to the man’s house. The shed that housed the cats was in better condition than I had imagined, with controlled temperatures, scratching and play posts, and a degree of cleanliness with a separate area for litter. It seemed the kind country man had taken very good care of the unwanted kitties. I set the pet taxi in the middle of the room and looked around, slightly overwhelmed by all the options. A few curious kittens made their way into my carrier, while older kitties hissed and hid as I got closer, and the rest of them continued their 16 hour siesta without a glance. But one cat stood out to me. He was running around the room, jumping and leaping from cat posts to beds, and the on the highest surfaces possible, pausing briefly for casual grooming or getting hissed at, but resuming his spirited romp nonplussed. He was a tabby, with gray and black stripes, donning a white nose, chest, belly and socks. The majority of his fur was dark on top but white underneath. I asked the cat owner who he was, and he said, “Oh that’s Reuben, do you want a closer look at him? I can catch ‘im for you.” Easier said than done because he was one kitty that did not want to be caught. Finally we corralled him over to us, I gingerly picked him up, not really knowing exactly how to hold a cat. I looked into his bright green eyes and as he squirmed and protested and I knew he was the one. The man said Reuben was about six months old, had his shots and was recently neutered, a short-haired cat with lots of energy. I gave the man a check, he gave me a bag of Science Diet dry kitty food, and finally my pet taxi was empty no more.

I pondered on what I should name him during the drive back to Austin, as he loudly protested the car ride and change from his humble country home. I didn’t really think “Reuben” was fitting, plus, as his new mommy, I wanted to name him. I brought him into my small duplex where I recently moved, gently opened the cat carrier, and told him this was his new home. I watched him cautiously sniff around, still meowing. Later I went to my room to get ready for bed and when I returned to the kitchen, my new kitty had disappeared. Knowing there’s no way he could’ve gotten out, I casually looked around while chanting, “here kitty, kitty, kitty…” After about 10 minutes, the casual looking turned into overturning furniture, peeling open boxes, and yanking out drawers. After an exhaustive search, I came to the conclusion that SOMEHOW he escaped to the outdoors. Bewildered and parched, I reached into the kitchen cabinets for a glass, and there on the countertop, I saw him. Scared and saucer-eyed, begging to stay hidden while crouched behind the toaster. So I named him Toaster.

I held Toaster a lot because I wanted him to be a people-kitty, a lover, and I wanted some furry affection too. As any cat owners knows, you can’t really make a cat be or do anything, it has to be their idea and they have to want it. Toaster was a lover from the beginning. Where most cats would run to hide at the sight of strangers in their home, Toaster would come out, purr loudly, rub, and affectionately greet anyone and everyone. Some people reciprocated his affection, others would kick him away, but he would keep trying. I decided early on I wanted him to be an indoor/outdoor cat because he had so much energy and passion for exploration. It seemed only fitting that he should be allowed to stalk small creatures, roll in my flowerbed, scale trees, and lazily lie in the sun until I came home each day.

He put up with my bathing him and brushing his teeth, he cuddled with me when I wanted and slept on the end of my bed every night, many times between my legs. He was never vindictive no matter what I did, no matter how long I was gone on vacations and left him in the care of someone else. He never destroyed anything or peed/pooped in the house. He had no interest in people food and didn’t even require the use of a litter box, as the outside world was his outhouse. He would only meow occasionally when his food bowl was empty, but he wasn’t persistent or didn’t retaliate if I didn’t get to it right away. He had his occasional puke sessions as all cats do, and if I caught it early enough he would finish outside. He proudly brought me gifts in the form of feathers that used to make up a bird, half-chewed up lizards, mice, and larger bugs. He loved it when I moved to a place where my backyard was on the Greenbelt. He spent hours in the woods, being the hunter he was born to be. Through four moves in entirely different locations of Austin, he always adapted to his new environment and always came home.

A few weeks ago I noticed Toaster’s breathing seemed very labored. I guess I had noticed it for awhile, but I finally realized it was more than just a cold. My husband agreed that I should get it checked out so I took him to the vet for the first time for something different than a vaccine. He had his share of bumps and cuts, but they always healed naturally so no vet was required. I thought maybe I was being over anxious but figured it was worth getting a professional opinion. The veterinarian said Toaster’s breathing certainly did look labored and he recommended an x-ray as the next step to diagnosing the symptom. I didn’t expect having to go beyond a normal check-up, but agreed that the x-ray seemed logical. They took Toaster away and I casually waited, scrolling through photos on my phone. The vet came back and wanted me to see the x-ray results. First he showed me the lungs of a “normal” cat, and then showed me Toaster’s lungs. Cloudy, abnormal, certainly something wrong with him… Then he went on to say things like “maybe feline leukemia, probably cancer, perhaps a random fungus, some people might choose to put him down right now…” Wait, what? I bring him in for a small concern and he’s telling me that I might want to euthanize him right now??? I was incredulous. Then all the “other testing needed” recommendations were thrown at me and I felt completely lost in the medical world of cats. Dollar signs were multiplying with each of his suggestions, and finally he narrowed it down to “let’s do a feline leukemia test right now” because that would tell me how serious it was. A simple blood test, not too expensive, okay, let’s do that. This time they took Toaster away and as I waited alone in the room, I cried. The test for feline leukemia came back negative which good news but the vet said it was either cancer or a fungus called histoplasmosis and I would have to do further testing to find out. I decided to go home and talk to Ben before doing anymore tests.

A week later we decided to find out if he had the fungus by doing a urine test, because histoplasmosis was treatable. The test came back negative. Now their best guess was cancer, and they explained continued testing would be specialized and costly, starting around $1500. Of course money was an issue, but aside from that, I didn’t want Toaster to spend the rest of his days going to unfamiliar places, getting poked and prodded, being put under anesthetic, and given medication that had ugly side-effects, just so I could keep him alive longer. The vet said they didn’t think he was in any pain, he was still eating/drinking and his quality of life didn’t seem compromised to the point of putting him down. So I took him home and decided to enjoy the time I had left with him.

I’m sad. I think about 10 years not being very old for a cat to live, the vet told me that he was a young senior…most cats live to 15 while a good amount live 18-20 years. But the his 10 years were lived to the fullest, I guess he already went through his other eight lives with all his scrappy outdoor adventures and territorial fights with other cats. He let them all know who was boss of our block and beyond.

My sweet kitty, I see you, your body slowly deteriorating. You can’t climb and pace on the fence in our backyard anymore. I used to look out the kitchen window and see you looking regal and taking ownership of the neighborhood while on top that fence. You can’t race up trees anymore, with your kitten-like qualities you never lost until now. You don’t follow me and the girls to the mailbox or park anymore, having you behind us was you being with us, in your own cat, dog-like way. You don’t tear through the house as if you’re going mad when a storm is on the way. You don’t jump up and join us on our bed throughout the night, and sometimes I gently place you on the bed to sleep between my feet, just like old times. You don’t burst through your kitty door and race to greet me when I come home, or wait on the front porch for me or Ben. You are losing weight and getting weaker, but you still meow when I call you and push your face into my hands for loving pets. You still eat and drink your water which I change out fresh every day now. I think about how this bag of kitty food is probably the last one I’ll ever buy for you. I think about the kitty door ceasing to flap and falling silent for the first time ever. I think about you not being here in all the places I look for you everyday, just because you have been the last 10 years, and my tears cannot be held back.

You used to climb into my suitcase while I was packing for trips, and I would let you lie there until I needed the space. I was amused and happy for your company, thinking it would be nice if I could take you too. Now you are going on a trip, a journey I cannot travel with you.

People came in and out of my life over the last ten years. I moved, objects moved, life changes happened, but you were a constant companion, especially when I lived alone. People say you’re “just a cat”, but I’m not just losing “a cat.” I’m poignantly aware of losing a routine, filing your bowl, listening for you to come in, looking for you in your favorite spots, finding someone to check on you when we’re away, leaving doors open, a routine of you simply being present. A furry, fun member of our family.

And I’m thankful. I’m thankful for your loving, spunky, light-hearted nature. I’m thankful for my family who always showed love and kindness to you when they visited. I’m thankful for everyone that’s loved on and enjoyed you. I’m thankful for my husband who adopted you without hesitation when we were married, and still let you sleep on the bed. I’m thankful you were here when we brought home our two daughters. You endured the squeals, tail-pulling, and screaming of babies on through the toddler years. I’ll never forget the excitement each of them displayed when they discovered your tail for the first time, swishing back-in-forth as you rubbed on my legs. You would just lie there as they loved on you, even though they were rough and noisy. I wanted you to grow up with my girls, but I’m thankful for the time they got to spend with you. I’m thankful for the comforting presence of the Lord, who watches over and cares about all His creation.

The other day I made a garden stone with Ben, and pressed your kitty paws in the mold before the cement hardened. That way, you’ll always be in our flowerbed where you love to roll around and get so dirty. I pray I’ll know when it’s time to let you go, and that you won’t have any pain in the end. For now, I grieve as I wait, and I enjoy you as you are, desiring to make your last days as comfortable as possible. Often I go out to the porch where you spend most of your time now, and I gently stroke your fur and tell you’re our Toaster-Man, and a good boy, a good kitty. I’m really going to miss you, and know you will always hold a place in the suitcase of my heart.

September 16th, 2014

Toaster went to kitty heaven today. His last days were filled with labored breathing, a lot of sleeping, and barely eating or drinking. Still he found the strength to raise his head and meow when we walked by, and to be with his family as much as he could. Seeing his chest rise and fall so violently while wheezing through each breath helped me realize it was time to let him go. He also wanted to be outside, but I was worried that he’d run away to hide and die, and I wouldn’t be able to find him. Knowing his love for the outdoors, I hated keeping him confined to the house, I would sit with him on the porch occasionally so he could be outside. Today I put him on the porch and peeked out the window every so often to make sure he was okay. When the kids went down for a nap I sat out there with him. Last night, I noticed how uncomfortable it was for him to be held, so I just stroked his head. Ben and I took him to the vet and I held him as he slipped away. The veterinarian said his breathing quality was so poor, we were doing the kindest thing by letting him go. The drive home was hard, my arms were empty and the city felt emptier with my kitty friend gone. He always trusted me, and I felt such turmoil and peace at the same time to let him go. I know it was right, but the pain is potent.

To Toaster:

There’s a cool breeze tonight as summer is fading into fall. I think about how every Halloween in Mueller kids would yell out, “Whoh, look at that cool cat.” or “(squeal) That’s a REAL cat!” You were my unintentional Halloween decoration as you stood on our porch fence watching the costumed kids walk by, and their comments always made me smile. Last Sunday our neighbors walked by and their 5 year old daughter came up on the porch to pet you. I told the girl’s dad that you wouldn’t be here anymore after Tuesday. He said it’s been their evening ritual every day for the last three years to walk by our house so his daughter could pet you. She said good-bye with her sweet, child’s voice and stroked your head for the last time.

You were always so extroverted and I’m thankful for the joy you brought to others, simply by being on the porch. I’m sure there are many people that looked for you that I don’t even know about. I look for you now to see if you’re in your usual spots, but I know you’re gone.

This morning I told Claire you were going away today. “Oh, but he is coming back?”, was her innocent response. No, not this time. He’s not coming back. My heart aches, you were such a good kitty I don’t have anything to be mad at you for. I’m sorry the cancer took over your body, but thank you for the 10 years you really lived that made all the difference. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again, but I do know I’ll never forget you. You were my first real friend in Austin, and your presence and comforting ways linger softly in my heart.

“What is the price of five sparrows—two copper coins? Yet God does not forget a single one of them.” Luke 12:6