Oliver

Almost 20 years ago in DC my friend Valerie was watching my apartment for me while I was on a trip. When I got back I opened the door and saw a little black kitten pop out of the kitchen and then go back in.

I called Valerie.

"Hey, Val."

"Hi. Welcome back!"

"Thanks. Listen, maybe you were hitting two birds with one stone, but there's a cat here."

"Oh, that's your cat."

"Val, I don't have a cat."

"I got you one."

"You can't give me a cat. I can barely take care of a plant."

"Her name is Spooky Bear."

Spooky Bear rubbed up against my leg.

"You want me to take her back?" asked Valerie.

"No."

"Great! Have fun with Spooky Bear!"

"Well, her name's not Spooky Bear."

I always thought of myself as guy who if I had a dog, its name would be Dog, or Pal. Because I never thought of myself as a cat guy. Ever. But if the same DNA applied, this cat's name should be Cat, or Pal. But when Spooky Bear jumped up on the table and sat with her tail wrapped around herself, she was an elegant and regal creature. She was black and sleek, like an olive. A little black olive. Olive, I thought. I will call her Olive.

But as I noticed Olive walking away from me one day, it seemed she had a few more parts and pieces than she should have. And when a friend who knew about cats visited, he said, "That cat's a dude, dude."

So Olive became Oliver.

He moved with me from DC to Chicago. We lived in different apartments and condos. From my apartment on Montrose I learned A) the building had mice, because B) Oliver was a mouser - as one evening he presented me a 'gift'.

As much as I can claim Oliver as my cat, I am his person. It's my lap, my pets, my ear rubs. I'm the one who can hold him for any length of time. It's my bearded chin he rubs his head against. I'm the one who can nip the nape of his neck and find no retribution; only purrs.

As my cat he's seen me through thick and thin, and then back to thick. He's seen me through different jobs, girlfriends, and Superbowl parties. He's seen me at my best and worst. He's seen things of which I'm glad he can't speak. Or judge.

He met my wife. And then he met my children. He's always been there for me. I tried to be there for him.

I regret we didn't play 'sheet' more. (Sheet was a chase game Oliver played whenever I made the bed. My role was to simply keep airing the sheet as he chased an imaginary foe across the mattress.) I also regret I didn't pet him more or rub his ears more or kiss his tiny head more because, well, duh.

But that's it. I spared no expense. I gave him the best I could. I think he had a good life. I will miss him. And I will always always love him.

Bringing him to the vet that last time was the hardest thing I've ever done. I wish it on no one. But it's important to remember that it's not something we're doing TO them. It's something we're doing FOR them. To stave off suffering, to give them dignity, to do what they cannot.  

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

A friend shared this with me on facebook. It's the last stanza from Robinson Jeffers' poem The House Dog's Grave, and it's from the dog's perspective:

You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.

And here's this, which has helped me in the past.

Peace out...