Goodbye, good kitty

Yesterday, we said goodbye to our good and loyal friend Lorenzo--our kitty.

Last Thursday, Lorenzo was diagnosed with diabetes. Things initially looked manageable, but as we started to switch him to a diabetes management diet, he stopped eating, and when we tried to lure him back to his old Friskies, he still refused to eat. He drank and drank and drank, but grew weaker as he went without sustenance. By Sunday, he was looking sunken and was very weak, wobbling around on his feet when he tried to get yet another drink, laying listlessly in the hallway, his breathing labored. Animals have a way of telling us when it's time, and Lorenzo was letting us know.

Our regular veterinarian, whom we really adore for his kind, compassionate and dedicated care of Lorenzo over the last 8 years, was unfortunately out of town yesterday, so we called one of the emergency numbers he provided on his message. The emergency clinic was open 24 hours, so we could take our time getting prepared. We called my parents to take Bubba overnight, and while we waited for them to arrive, I found an appropriate-size box and covered it with white wrapping paper that had little raised flowers all over it. I punched two holes in each of the flaps on top of the box and threaded black ribbon through them to close it. Inside, I lined the box with a towel and over it, a large piece of a soft brown dress of mine that Lorenzo loved to bat at in the closet, one that he had pretty much ruined. I figured he must have liked it a lot. We also included one of his fuzzy feather toys and a new catnip toy that Tingle had gotten him. J. tried digging a hole in the catnip patch, but it was too thick with tree roots, so instead we picked a spot between the flower garden and the vegetable garden.

With all of our preparations complete, J. and I took turns holding Lorenzo quietly. I picked him up and just held him in my arms for most of the afternoon. He was so listless and didn't purr, but he flopped his tail a few times and I could tell he was happy to be there in my lap. He simply laid there with his eyes half open, looking peaceful but weak.

After my parents picked up Bubba, we spent another hour with Lorenzo before finally heading over to the clinic. Usually, Lorenzo needed to be crated for any kind of car ride, but we assumed correctly that he was too weak to really care this time, so I held him on the way over, wrapped in a soft pink blanket to keep him warm. The sun was close to setting, and it was a beautiful sunset, one where you can see the perfect round circle of the sun amidst pink and yellow clouds. When we got to the clinic, Lorenzo was so still and heavy in my arms that I thought for a moment that he was already gone, but then we could see his breathing, now shallow and rapid.

The veterinary office had a special room for this kind of visit that had a small couch, so we sat and held and stroked Lorenzo for several minutes while we waited for the doctor. It seemed meaningful to me that on the wall of the office was an artist's rendering of a veterinarian with a dog, and the dog looked just like my beloved shih tzu Sasha, who died about 14 years ago. The doctor and her staff were very comforting, didn't rush us at all, and let us tell them a little bit about our kitty, the cat they were preparing to euthanize.

When the doctor gave him the sedation shot, she observed that he was very dehydrated, even though he'd been drinking like crazy the last few days--another sign that his body was failing. Lorenzo didn't even move when she gave him the shot. The doctor left us alone for a bit for the sedative to kick in, then returned and we laid him on the table so she could find a vein. They found one easily, and inserted the anesthesia overdose as I stroked Lorenzo's head and recited our favorite endearment over the years--"good kitty, good kitty." The effect was almost instantaneous and before I even realized it, it was over. We gathered him up and laid him in his box. It seemed almost too small until we arranged him in it, curled up and snuggled tight like he always was on our bed.

Through my tears on the way home, holding the box with my still-warm kitty inside, the sun had set, leaving a beautifully illuminated pink horizon against the darkness of the night. When I carried the box in, I instinctively looked down the basement stairs to see if Lorenzo was waiting for us, even though I was holding his dead body in my arms.

I opened the box up one last time and stroked his now cooling fur, and gave him one more kiss goodbye. J. also came over and put his hand in. "I just wanted to touch him one last time," he said. We wrapped him back up and carried him to the spot we had prepared for him. We did the job mostly in silence. When we were done, I stood for a moment and just said, "Sleep well, kitty."

I came back in and laid down on the bed and really cried for just a couple of minutes, then I got up and gathered his things together to toss or give away. We took the cat door that my father had made for Lorenzo out of the frame of our sliding-glass door and put it in the garage. The absence of the cat door was almost more jarring than looking at it and knowing there was no longer a kitty to use it.

Lorenzo came to us as a stray kitten when he was about six months old. We put a box out for him and started feeding him, as it was a cold November. He endeared himself to us by always "thanking" us for his food, rubbing up against our legs even though he must have been starving. One night as we sat down for dinner, he jumped up on the screen of our big window and hung there looking at us. That was it--he was ours.

To me and J., he was the most loving cat you could imagine--too loving, in fact, always wanting to be with us, always wanting attention. He loved to jump up on us and lick our faces, he loved wrestling with J. on the floor, he loved to sleep in J.'s arms while he played PlayStation or to rest on my chest while I laid on the couch.

To almost everyone else, Lorenzo was a psychotic, aggressive, even dangerous animal. He'd had chronic stomatitis, a gum infection, since we got him and by the age of 3 had had all of his teeth removed, but he still had claws and he used them to attack anyone who came into our house, even people who visited multiple times, like my family members or friends. He often drew blood and always instilled fear with his low growls and chilling howls of warning. In the end, he had come to mostly tolerate my family and even show some affection toward my mother and my friend LilCherie. He mostly stayed away from Bubba but would sometimes allow a little bit of petting from him. One famous Lorenzo story involves a meter reader who happened to cross Lorenzo's path while trying to read the meter one day. He had to use the lid from our grill to shield himself from the cat, and even had to climb over the edge of the deck to get away because Lorenzo wouldn't let him down the stairs. He was a good watchcat! He defended his home against any stranger, human or otherwise.

This last summer, he really got into catching rodents, and left multiple presents for J. and me in the living room or kitchen. When he started bringing them in still alive, we had to limit his access to the outside, but he still left an occasional gift on the deck stairs, and always looked so proud when he presented them to us.

Now, of course I wish that I had been more patient all those times when he was driving me nuts--scratching on the walls for us to escort him to his nightly lair in the basement, getting under my feet when I was trying my best to get him fed, jumping on the computer when I was trying to write or laying on top of the magazine I was trying to read. But I know that many of those times, I did give up what I was doing to give him some love, and I know that he had a good life with us.

As J. said yesterday, there won't be many people who will miss Lorenzo. Many of our family and some friends, who had been attacked numerous times, had stated on many occasions that they were looking forward to him being gone, and even offered to have him put to sleep for us. I can't blame them for their feelings; Lorenzo was really, really mean to them. But I always feel that they just didn't know him. Lorenzo, for whatever reason, wouldn't let them get to know him. He had chosen J. and me to be his humans, and that was all he wanted. I'm glad that we could be there for him at the end. I'm glad we didn't wait until he was crying in pain, and that his spiral downward only lasted a few days. I'm glad his death was peaceful and painless and that he didn't seem to even be aware of what was happening.

Today I woke up and looked out the window, expecting to see him prowling through the yard getting ready to pounce on a mouse. Instead I saw the fresh dirt of his grave. As I prepared to leave the house, I went to throw the blanket over my bed to keep it clean from Lorenzo's hair and debris from outside, then realized I didn't have to do that anymore.

I didn't think it would be so hard to let go of him. He had been getting more and more annoying over the last couple years, and besides, I've lost a child--losing a pet wouldn't even compare. And it doesn't. And yet, it still hurts. He still filled a space in our lives and in our home--in our hearts--that is empty now.

Lorenzo, we will remember you. And we will miss you.