Goodbye friend

A dark cloud hangs over Catnip Cottage today.  I had to let my cat Fifty-fifty go.  He was sixteen and though he had been slowing down for a while still seemed in pretty good health.  This past week he began failing so I took him to the vet.  I feared I would not bring him home alive.  The doctor called this morning to inform me that there was little that could be done for him that would be more than just prolonging his suffering.  I spent time with him, telling him I loved him and what a great friend he had been to me.  He was alert which made it harder but I was glad he knew I was there and could hear my voice.

I wrote the following piece for an online writing class I took a couple of months ago.  I think it serves as a fitting tribute to my buddy:

My Pal Fifty

In October of 1995 I found a long-haired orange and white cat on my doorstep.   I scorned my son Jordan’s attempts to befriend the cat, saying, “Don’t feed it, talk to it or let it in the house.”  Jordan said I was mean but we already had three cats.  After two or three days passed with the tenacious creature holding his ground, I relented and the furry intruder was fed, watered and allowed to come into the house.  Once I let myself get close to the newcomer, I noticed the deep wound on his head.  Deciding the injury needed medical attention I made an appointment with the vet.

The stranger needed a name.  I usually christened my pets with human names but because of his coloring I decided to name this cat Fifty-fifty.  His orange and white coat reminded me of the vanilla and orange-covered ice cream bars I ate as a child.  Over time the determined cat that would not leave our yard came to be called Fifty.  I was once asked if he was named after the rapper 50 cent.  “Of course I’ve heard of him” I said, “but come on I’m 63 years old and not that hip.” 

The next day after treating Fifty-fifty’s injury, Doctor Fisher asked if I would like to have him neutered.  I agreed and Fifty-fifty spent the night.  The next day I told my friend Pauline with whom I commuted to work, about the cat’s visit to the vet and the procedure he was having.  She looked at me eyes wide open and said, “But he’s not your cat!” 

I said, “I guess he is now.” 

She asked, “What if he is a prize breeding cat?” 

I said, “He’s not anymore.” 

We laughed all the way to work.

Fifty happily adjusted to his new home despite the hostile reactions of the felines in residence.  Elliott, a white short-haired male and head honcho tolerated Fifty but nothing more while Gidget, a blue-eyed Siamese cross showed her disdain swatting Fifty across the face each time he crossed her path.   Fifty never got the drift.  Johnny a black short-haired male named after the lead character in Dirty Dancing, kept his distance from Elliott and Gidget who treated the sweet-natured cat as their whipping boy.    

Fifty kept us entertained with his playful antics.  He skidded from one end of the house and back again as if being chased by a rabid dog.  He tossed his toy mouse into the air then bit it ferociously.  Fifty has slowed down and spends most of his time sleeping but once in a while speeds through the house chased by that invisible assailant.  Fifty loves when we pet him.  If you lay your hand on his head he will rub back and forth against it.  Jordan says, “You just put your hand by his head and he does all the work.”         

Fifty is my constant companion; sometimes against my will.  I can’t walk into the kitchen without hearing the pitter patter of his paws behind me.  He’s always hungry.  He eats several times a day then wakes me for his midnight snack.  I call him bugateer, pain in the butt and say that if you look up the word pest in the dictionary you’ll find his picture there.  He is also the devoted friend who laid by my side throughout the eight months I was ill last year.  His first interest is always his own comfort but I don’t mind coming in second.