Giving them every last chance

I’ve been mulling this post for more than three months. I wanted to write about the death of a cat that I loved dearly for eight years, but as I always follow the admonition of a literary agent I knew (to not write a word until you can keep from “opening a vein and bleeding on the page”) I had no idea how to go at it.

The basics are: Big Mike was well, then he got terribly sick for reasons that are still unclear, and then he died four days later, leaving me utterly devastated.

But I had no perspective – no moment of illumination that would help you, dear reader, come away with a new thought or a new understanding… anything other than a chance to share my grief. And after writing hundreds of columns for Hearst newspapers, I knew this did not making for satisfying reading.

The approach finally came to me earlier this week, when I learned of an emergency situation: an elderly cat that had been abandoned nearby, almost killed in a predator attack, starved for lack of food, and wandered aimlessly until a good person scooped him up and took him to the Peninsula Humane Society, where, she was told, “they would fix him up and find him a home.”

Right…. There is fine print in our local shelter’s slogan that that they are a no-kill shelter, because they find homes for “all adoptable pets.” Sadly, their yardstick for adoptability is woefully short. I knew that the sweet old guy’s days were numbered. He was advanced in age, ill, and frail. Too much work = euthanasia.

And of course the rescuer got the call: pick him up or he’s toast. But she could not keep him. And after I saw the photo of this beat-up old sweetie, *I* was toast.

So I received him Monday morning, named him Wyatt (which means survivor) and wondered, as I felt every bone in his starved, sagging body and his fur splattered with diarrhea, if maybe I came into Wyatt’s life just to see him through to a good death. “Okay,” I whispered as I cradled his uneasy form in my arms, “I’m here for you. You have a big last chance at a happy life.”

And then I thought of Big Mike, also a mature brown and black tabby with white markings, who came to me 8 years ago in the field, so badly wounded by a predator attack that both euthanasia and amputation of his shredded leg were considered. But I stubbornly refused, instead putting him through a series of surgeries, afforded when a generous donor offered to help with his rehab.

He survived the mauling, blossomed like a rose and became my “barnacle cat” – affixed to me the second I sat down. I gave him a “big last chance at a happy life,” and that’s what we had together, until his luck (and mine) ran out just before Thanksgiving. He began his downslide on a Tuesday, and by Sunday he was gone. I don’t know what killed him – but since so many farms and ranches use pesticides (and I think Mike was a neglected ranch cat), my guess was gut cancer. But it almost didn’t matter. My beloved boy was gone, for whom I’d risked a lot – from money to my heart. I was exhausted and knew it would be a long time before I risked so much again.

And then… Wyatt’s picture appeared in my iMessage. Could I please help? I struggled with how to answer. I dreaded the responsibility, and the inevitable pummeling of my emotions. But I thought about Big Mike. Would he want my grief for him to make me turn away? Wouldn’t he want me to keep opening my heart?

So reluctantly, I said yes. And as soon as I made him at home in my half-bath, I was so glad I did. In less than a week, I have watched Wyatt blossom in small but beautiful moments, to where he’s now purring, eating well, and sleeping soundly. It will take him some time, but I have confidence that his big last chance will be a forever home – I’m hoping on the lap of a lonely senior – and I will cheer him on and make room in my heart for another cat who needs a last chance at a life and especially LOVE.

It’s what Big Mike would want.

Thanks, St. Francis, for the glimmer of perspective, and the nudge to keep sharing what I have to share.