I thought I’d get 20; I’m happy with 12

Iggy was the kitten who convinced me to never adopt another kitten. Rambunctious, too smart for his own good, fearless, the white-with-black mini-monster earned the name Iggy Pop within days of being adopted 12 years ago. I’d be plucking him off a high shelf one moment, dragging him down from drapes the next. I’d watch, heart in throat, when he’d leap from dangerous heights just for the rush it gave him.

He took some nasty spills too. I watched him disappear off the top of my tallest armoir after he jousted with a leaf on a tall plant, and heard him hit the ground – splat – only to pick himself up, shake the dizziness from his head, and dash toward the next adventure. I love these photos of him being adorable one moment, dangerous the next.

He was wiry like a cheetah and just as strong. And announced himself as the alpha of the house the moment he dashed in the door, much to the consternation of the much-older (and thankfully circumspect) Claude. His mother, Lena, whom I adopted at the same time, taught him tough love by giving him rabbit kicks to the head when he tried to nurse; she also let him cuddle as long as he didn’t crowd her.

He swatted at stranger’s dogs, and even at strangers, was a picky eater and in many other respects a maddening cat. But he also became my baby. The flip side to the alpha rascal was that when he wasn’t tearing up the house, he was demanding cuddles. So many emails had to be rewritten when he leapt onto the desk and tiptoed across the keyboard so he could get at my lap, where he would sit, purring for hours.

For 12 years, I adored him. I thought that a cat so athletic and full of joie de vivre would live to be 20. It was not to be.

Two years ago he was diagnosed with inflammatory bowel syndrome, which caused him to lose weight and have intestinal issues. We were dealing with it, though it was scary at times. A week ago yesterday he began to spiral downward. An x-ray found fluid in his abdomen, which meant either cancer or peritonitis. And during the course of the week I watched my rambunctious boy become a shadow – one with wide eyes that spoke of both pain and withdrawal. I spent as much time with him as I could, scooping his weak and skeletal frame up and onto my lap, where I cradled him in a blanket and kissed him while he purred. As long as he purred, I could convince myself that he’d recover and we have more years together. “Remember,” I whispered, “it’s only been 12 and you owe me 20!”

And then the purring stopped on Thanksgiving evening. When I scooped him up to cuddle with me in my chair, he weakly tried to get away. I tearfully let him down, and he wandered off on wobbly legs to sit in the dark closet. Nothing I could do would coax him out. Friday morning, when he refused all food, I made the call.

Dr. Sue, who does house call euthanasia, was kind and gentle as always. I held Iggy and cried like my heart would crack in two as he moved gently in arms, and then was still.

Some animal deaths I take better than others. This one was beyond devastating, partly due to the suddenness of it and also the maddening lack of a definite reason for his rapid decline. I was angry, I wanted answers. His vet is lucky they were closed for the holiday weekend.

And so am I. At this point I’ve had at least a little time to try to put Iggy’s passing into perspective and sorrow and reflection have replaced anger. If there was something to learn, I think it might be that animal relationships are sometimes like human ones. Not all of them are meant to last forever – or even for very long. And sometimes the ones that burn the brightest and hottest are abbreviated. That doesn’t make them any less profound.

Saint Francis, thanks for cushioning the pain with the reminder that I might not have gotten the 20 years of love and happy times I was hoping for, but these 12 were beautiful just the same.