8 Ways to Sunday

A week ago today, I woke up to find that during the night my cat had vomited at least five times in different places around the house. He saw the vet that morning, and she sent him home with some food for cats with irritable stomachs. That night, he started vomiting blood. He was admitted to the vet again at about 11:30 PM. By Friday morning, he was gone.

On an overcast evening last July, I was leaving the local Asian food market when I heard a tiny but insistent meowing from the vicinity of my feet. There lay an emaciated tabby kitten, looking up at me with big golden eyes. I reached down to pet him, and this simple act set him purring loudly. Clearly he was starved for attention as well as food. When he tried to come closer, I noticed that one of his hind legs was injured. He could barely stand on it, let alone walk in his weakened condition. I’ve never been a cat person, but I took him home and gave him food and water. He ate and drank until his little belly was bulging, then slept soundly.

For about a week I wasn’t sure that I would keep him, but he won me over little by little. He was uncommonly devoted and loving for a cat, and as he regained his strength he began to show more of his playful personality. I started visiting baby name web sites to look for a fitting name for him. I decided on Riley when I read that it meant “valiant” in Gaelic. That seemed appropriate for a kitten who had been through such an ordeal, yet still showed such indomitable spirit. He stayed in my bathroom for a short time, since I was afraid he’d get into something dangerous in the rest of the house. The kitchen was the first room to be “cat-proofed,” and he soon moved into there. He earned his middle name, Houdini, by displaying his uncanny ability to overcome all the makeshift barriers I put up to try and keep him confined to the kitchen. His injured leg didn’t slow him down a bit as he found his way under, around, and even over every obstacle I could put in his way. Needless to say, the rest of the house became cat-proof sooner rather than later.  

Although his physical health was rapidly improving, Riley turned out to have one emotional problem: a fear of abandonment. He was already box-trained when I brought him home, so I know that he’d had a human parent before me who must have left him. When I left home for work in the morning, he’d become distraught and depressed. Even going out the back door to take the trash out or smoke a cigarette would freak him out. As soon as I shut the door behind me, he’d start pawing at the glass and mewing pitifully.

In an effort to help, my grandmother brought over Huggie — a big stuffed monkey that had been mine as a little kid, and been passed to my younger cousin when I outgrew stuffed animals. I thought it was kind of silly, but Riley took to Huggie almost instantly. He’d always been fascinated with human faces, and I suppose the monkey was anthropomorphic enough to serve as a surrogate when I was away. Riley would sit on its lap and purr contentedly, sometimes rubbing his head against Huggie’s face or grooming the monkey with his tongue. Even when he got older, the two remained fast friends.

We soon settled into a routine together. I’d try to spend some quality time with Riley on weekday mornings before I left for work and again over lunch. When I got home I’d often find him waiting for me by the door. We’d get some more play time in during the evenings. When it was time for bed he’d curl up in my lap as I sat in my desk chair, and I’d rock him to sleep. He loved to lay in the crook of my right arm while he kneaded my left arm with his paws. He’d purr away, zone out and start drooling, then eventually fall asleep. On the weekends he was my little buddy, following me around the house and taking an interest in whatever I was doing.

Riley grew fast and became one of the larger domestic cats I’ve seen. My grandfather once wondered aloud if he might be part bobcat, though aside from his size and big paws he didn’t show any traits of wild cats. He eventually got big enough that he could stand on his hind legs and put the pads of his forepaws on the top of the kitchen counter. His cat box became uncomfortably small, and since the local stores didn’t sell anything larger I had to trade it out for a big Rubbermaid storage container. Fitting him on my lap became more of a challenge, but we always managed.

About five weeks ago, Riley started acting more low-key than usual. At first I thought it was a result of getting older and losing some of his manic kitten-energy. About a week later, however, he started to throw up more often than usual. He’d always done it from time to time, and the vet had said it wasn’t much of a concern. Now, however, it was happening often enough to be a real cause for worry. I spoke to the vet and to some other cat people, and almost all said that the cause was probably hairballs. They’re especially bad this time of year, when cats are shedding their winter coats. I started Riley on some hairball-prevention treats and began brushing him more often, a process for which he showed little patience.

For almost two weeks, he seemed to improve. The vomiting became less frequent, and he got back some of his old energy. It didn’t last, however. When he started throwing up again, I started looking for a hole in my schedule for a visit to the vet. Then last Wednesday came.

When he was admitted to the vet’s office late Wednesday night, Riley was given some anti-nausea medicine and a sedative to help him sleep. The next day, x-rays showed air in his colon but no feces and no obstructions such as hairballs. Exploratory surgery in the afternoon found his digestive tract empty, blood in his bladder, and traces of blood in his stomach. His blood tests all came back normal, and he showed no obvious signs of having been poisoned by some household chemical.

After work I brought Huggie and a shirt with my scent to the clinic. I petted Riley and talked to him while he slowly woke up from the surgical anesthesia. The doctor gave me a password for a veterinarian information site and gave me some lessons in how to use it. Searches for Riley’s combination of symptoms kept turning up references to pancreatitis, and one of her Kansas State University colleagues had also mentioned that as a possibility when she called him for advice on Riley’s case. She decided to treat pancreatitis as the preliminary diagnosis, and to start him on medications to treat it in the morning. I stroked Riley’s head and said goodnight, then went home.

That night, I went back to the vet web site and searched for prescription and herbal medications that might be toxic to cats. Since household cleaning chemicals seemed to have been ruled out, that was the last non-pancreatitis cause I could think of. None of the lists I found contained medicines that were in the house. I went to bed feeling satisfied that I’d done all I could, and hopeful that the vet had found a treatable cause for Riley’s illness.

The next morning before I left for work, I got a phone call from the vet. Riley had died sometime during the night. I brought him home and buried him in the back yard with Huggie and the shirt I’d taken him the evening before. I did a lot of crying over the weekend; every time I turned around I found something else that reminded me of Riley. I also did a lot of thinking — about mortality, about fate, and about love.

Aside from the Riley-shaped hole in my life, the thing that makes me heartsick about Riley’s passing is how young he was. At just over a year old, he had so much living left to do. If I hadn’t taken him home as a kitten, he most likely would have died within a couple of days. Instead, he had a short but happy life and a home where he was loved. I know he’s now free from sickness and pain. I know that one day I’ll see him again. Still, there’s that Riley-shaped hole. I don’t see it going away any time soon.

I believe that everything happens for a reason. Perhaps some lives come into this world for only a short time, to serve some greater purpose, and then leave. I think Riley and I were meant to be part of one another’s lives, and we were both enriched by the experience. I’m sure my time with Riley — even his early death — has changed and improved me in ways I don’t yet fully understand, and for that I am grateful.

One lesson that I already know I’ve learned is this: the things and people that you love can be taken from you at any time. Some might consider this cruel, but I prefer to look at it as instructive, even motivating. Cherish what you have while you have it, whether it’s a loving family, a favorite hobby, or a career that you love. That way when it’s gone (and all things eventually do pass), you’ll have fond memories to look back on. I know I do.