Mike

He was such a gentleman, he really was. My baby would do anything to please a girl. But he was still a baby too, at least at heart. He was always so polite. And he listened to me, he trusted my voice. Towards the end, he actually came when I called his name, instead of looking at me arrogantly from wherever he'd run to. And even though his litter box was half as big as it needed to be, he still used it. He was my heart and soul. He was my life, light of my day, the gold in my sun.

He didn't want to go into the cat carrier, I pushed and forced and tried to hard, and I got so frustrated with him. He wouldn't go in, it was like trying to drown a cat, it just doesn't mix - oil and water. But then, I couldn't blame him. The carrier was also too small, and the only times he'd been in it it was to move to a different place, with strangers. I held him in the car on the way over. I'd tried to be nice to him through the morning, clean water bowl, fresh food, clean cat box, open window and air. In the car, I told him he'd be right as rain, we'd be home before he knew it, we were just going to get a couple shots to make him feel better and then we'd go. He didn't like the room we were put in. The doctor gave him some tranquilizer in his back, lower spine. We waited for it to take effect, and when the doctor came back, he gave him some more, and some more, and some more. My baby was tough, remarkably immune to strong doses. He tried jumping off the table, his reactions were very slow by then. When I picked him up he was heavier somehow, and soon, as he was lying on the table, he would just stare ahead of him, his mouth drooping and drooling a little. Like when a cat breathes in a strong scent and their mouth hangs open. And then his head got heavy and it dropped to the table. I tried to adjust it so he could still breathe. I was sitting on the ground in front of his face, trying to talk to him still, trying to see some light of recognition. The doctor came in a last time and laid him out, shaved his arm, gave the last dose, the anesthesia that would slow his heartbeat to nothing. He left the room when there was no pulse. My baby was lying there, his arm stretched out so far it didn't look comfortable. I laid my head on his stomach like I used to, but it wasn't the same, it was like a pillow - no life beneath the surface, no gurgling stomach, no tension or breathing, just a pillow. I went around the table and knelt in front of his face again. His eyes were still open, and he looked so . . . angry, it was the same face he gave me when I did something he didn't like. I tried to apologize for the humiliating position I had to put him through, I tried to close his eyes. I tried to readjust him so he wouldn't be uncomfortable. But as soon as I touched him, tried to lift him up, it was . . . not the same. I backed up so quickly, he was dead weight, disjointed limbs, but most horrifying of all - he wasn't there anymore. He was so completely gone, and I felt like I'd betrayed him. So entirely betrayed him.

And I couldn't . . . be there anymore. That image of him - that's the last thing I remember. And then it's like a tape on fast rewind, and I see my holding him in the room, and then in the car, and then trying to force him into the carrier, and then the morning of attempting to spoil him and let him enjoy his last day, and . . . it kills me to see that it's because of me and my stubbornness that he's not here, my polite little gentleman, the most well-mannered animal, the most well-mannered cat with the stubbornest ideas and a yellow teddy bear to sleep with, is dead because of me. He's no longer here to sit like the Sphinx, or give me that arrogant look like the king of the jungle, or to lay on my side when I say I'm cold. He's no longer here to run after me to my bedroom, day or night, my little shadow, or to meow like a six week old kitten, or to soccer punch me so hard my glasses fall off my face. He's no longer here to lay on his back with his legs spread and his tail curled like a monkey's and his eyes looking at you saying 'look but don't dare touch'. And I'll never get to see his paws turn white, or his back get crooked, or his eyes turn cloudy. I'll never know how long he might have lived. He'll always be my baby, a couple white hairs here and there, a mucky little teddy bear that's never been washed, and the memory of the richest, sweetest, granny smith green apple eyes I've ever seen or ever will see. He had the loudest purr I've ever heard in a cat, you could hear it across the room, and I swear he could understand everything I ever said. He held grudges like no other, and when I left for a few months of the summer, he wouldn't let me pet him for weeks. And he loved only me, he trusted only me, and I let him down.

My guardian, my protector, my prince - I only hope he's watching over me now. And when I hear the thunder rumbling, and when I smell the crisp air of a fresh spring morning, or feel an ache on the side of my eye, I'll think of my beautiful baby boy, and know, and hope, he's thinking of me too.

I hope he takes care of my heart where he's at, and wraps his beautiful monkey tail around my soul.