12 years ago my then roommate Gina bought home a little grey kitten that she had rescued from a bachelor pad. This little guy was from a litter of kittens born to a feral mom who resided at a chemical plant. At first I was a little wary on how Lizard, my then 6 year old cat, would handle the new addition to his space. Lizard took it fine but never bonded with him.
This new little one would fall asleep on my chest at night and then go pee on Gina’s bed. [ed note: Gina just called as I was writing, how fitting] He was a bundle of energy and very nimble. Climbing anything he could get his claws into – the screen, the jeans of our 80 year old landlord...you get the picture. He would also sit confidentially atop a 4 inch wide trellis we had on our 2nd floor balcony. A true acrobatic feat. During his “teenage years” Gina went to Europe with her mom for 7 weeks as a graduation gift. It was during this time that Frankie and I really bonded and I informed her upon return that Frankie was now my cat. And she understood.
Over the years there was no love loss between Frankie and Lizard, the 2 dominant males in my life. They tolerated each other because they had to. Then 2 years ago I lost Lizard to old age and Frankie became the king of the roost, a title that he cherished. His personality continued to flourish and I learned how to avoid getting attacked by him when he got excited. He was always a bit off, having a fierce temper to anyone but me and then alternately directed at me on a whim. Friends always joked that he was radioactive due to his mom’s situation as one of his brothers exhibited the same erratic behavior. For those of you who don’t know, a long time ago the vet prescribed Valium for me to give to Frankie prior to any vet appointments – this was not only to calm him down but to prevent major limb loss on the humans attempting to examine him. Good times. To this day I still have no idea how I got him in the carrier on the morning of the fire.
And then it happened, about 4 weeks ago I took Frankie to the vet after he had been exhibiting various signs of illness. The results of a blood test were “elevated pancreatic enzymes.” The next step toward an official diagnosis would have been an ultrasound and biopsy on his lumpy abdominal innards. A procedure that I chose to reject in lieu of his age and obvious dislike of all humans touch except for mine. I picked him up from the vet and began the goodbye process however I couldn’t bring myself to carry out the scheduling of “the appointment.” In the first few days of being home there were glimpses of a possible recovery...short term at best. He ate, drank, pee’d, poo’d, groomed himself and even played with white shoe strings. He was slightly less energetic but mostly back to his old craggy self. We had good days and a few so-so days with a whole lot of love given in between.
Last night I came home at about 1:30am and Frankie was in obvious pain. I’ll spare the details but this was definitely his final sign to me that “yes, mom, it really is that time...” I gave him some pain medication that my vet provided to me for just this reason and called my upstairs neighbor who had graciously agreed to assist when the time came. We got him in the carrier and drove him to the 24 hour vet clinic. The pain meds kicked in as we arrived and he was finally calm.
I will have to work hard to adjust my last image of him, heavily sedated with dilated pupils. However I will forever hold onto the fact that as soon as he heard my voice his pupils shifted and I know he knew I was in the room. I whispered “I love you Frankie” in his left ear like I’ve done multiple times every day since he came into my life 12 years ago, kissed him on the head and then fell apart.
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