Our cat, Liza Minnelli passed away this week. Actually, we had to put her to sleep. While our other cat, Sammy Davis, Jr., is taking this all in stride, and is under the impression that her demise means more food for him, we are not taking it so well.
Sammy has always been our “pet” pet. He was our first, and we got Liza because I thought he seemed lonely. In retrospect, I was probably wrong. Like her namesake, Liza came into our house with a bold attitude. A feline dominance war broke out and eventually, Sammy won. Liza ended up being more of a “daddy’s girl,” and Sammy is such a “mama’s boy” that if he were human, he’d probably get beat up by the other kids. Actually, make that the other senior citizens. Sammy and Liza were both born in 1990, which in human years is about ninety.
Liza had a good life. She played, slept and ate high-end kitty food. She got petted and held frequently, even when she didn’t want to. Still, Sammy has had a better life because he’s more affectionate, and hence, we dote on him more. I’m not proud to admit that, but then again, Liza was a cat’s cat: aloof, a loner, happier sleeping than socializing. Someone needs to tell Sammy he’s not a dog.
As with any story involving me and my husband, Liza’s death has a quirky bent. She had been getting more and more frail, and her kidneys were going. She started going outside the litter box in our laundry room. It finally got to be too much. We agreed on Wednesday morning to put her to sleep. We were sketchy on the details of who would call the vet or take her in, as neither of us wanted to think about it too much. We’d debated much over the last two months, and every time we decided to take her to the vet (or her final resting place) we changed our minds. I could tell my husband was struggling with it a bit more, so I volunteered to take her in.
“Maybe we should both take her in,” he said.
“No, I can do it.” I couldn’t explain why, but I had the strength to take her in alone, but not together. I think it would be too much to do it together, too much of a Lifetime movie.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or I can do it.”
I’m not sure how we left it. I didn’t want to leave it firm. Vague meant no action, and no action was comfortable.
Later that morning, I checked my voicemail at work. I had been in meetings. “It’s done,” he said. “I took her in.”
Naturally, I hit the roof. I called him up. “I wanted to say good-bye,” I said. “How could you just take her in?”
He explained that he had called the vet to make an appointment and they said, “Oh, well, you can bring her in now.” A slow day at the vet’s office meant death for my kitty. He thought about it for a moment, then decided he’d just bite the bullet (or in her case, let her bite the dust) and take her in. He sat with her in a small corner room while they waited for the vet. He told Liza he loved her, and that maybe we’d see her again one day. Neither hubby or I are overly religious, and while we are too chicken to be full-on atheist, we can’t completely accept the idea of heaven --- unless there is ever a 70% off sale at Neiman Marcus, or the wine shop.
He almost left with her at one point. He picked her up and nearly bolted for the door, but her demeanor was telling. She seemed to know it was time. My husband stayed.
When it was done, he came home and washed out her bowl, which sat next to Sammy’s, and put it away on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet. I don’t think he intended it to be a ceremonial gesture, but it was. He shook out her blanket, then put away the extra litter box we had, one for Liza, one for Sammy. He cleaned away Liza. I came home to a house that was a little tidier and a lot lonelier.
We were a family of four. Now we are three. I feel that there is a hole in our home. Sammy, on the other hand, acts as if nothing has changed. He purrs more than he has in a while, in fact. He evens seems a bit more spry than usual. I’m not sure if he misses her. Except . . .
Last night, we were in bed, the three of us. Sammy likes to sleep at the foot of the mattress, dog that he thinks he is. He jumped off and went to the top of the stairs and started yowling. This is not unusual. At seventeen, he gets a little senile at night and goes into the bathroom often and yowls. He never goes to the stairs, though. His yowl was different last night. Normally it is agitated, like he’s lost. This one was mournful, sad. I felt like he was almost singing a song. I know, I’ve gone too far, but it’s how it seemed. I think Sammy was saying good-bye.
Miss Minnelli, wherever you are tonight, I miss you. You were a good cat, and if there is a heaven, I hope you are now the house pet to one of my dearly departed relatives. If so, you’ll make a damn good pet. And if you are reincarnated, I hope you come back as a cat that roars.
