Cito fit quod dii volunt

What The Gods Want, Happens Soon

He was delivered into my world, fifteen years ago. At the tender age of 1, he made an entrance into my life. As I opened the door that chilly March morning in 1995, motorcycle gear in hand, preparing to to leave for work; I was minding my own business. There he was. Sitting right outside the door. As I stepped out, I almost stepped on him. I looked down and thought "Who the hell are you and where did you come from?" He wasn't one of the neighborhood critters. He simply looked up at me and without a word, yet with all the familiarity of someone who's been around for years, walked right by me and into the house. Now what? Hands full of jacket, helmet, gloves and briefcase, I quickly tossed it all in, on or around the BMW and hurried back inside. He disappeared around the corner. Casually strolling, occasionally stopping to sniff. I can still picture the day. He'd scoot just out of reach as I bent to gather him, saying "No, you can't live here. I don't have time for animals. I travel far to much and am away from home for weeks/months at a time. There's no one here to take care of you. Come HERE you little bastard!" As if he understood this babbling, bald biped in the first place.

After about 3-4 minutes of wandering, smelling and looking around, he walked back into the front room; promptly sat down in the middle of floor, looked up at me and said "Why yes, I think this will do nicely. I will live here."

"Oh no you don't. I've already told you, I don't have time for you. Now get." I picked him up and unceremoniously dropped him outside on the porch. "Go live someplace else. Shoo...shoo. Go away."

Stupid cat.

Three weeks later, after a visit to the vet and an official okey-dokey bill of health; after much effort by both myself and all of our neighbors to find his owner/find him a home, after a plea from my teenage daughter "Daaaaaad....can't we keep him?", Osh-Kosh became a permanent part of the family.

He was her cat. Cut, dry, pure and simple. Her responsibility. Well, right up to the day she left for college that is. After the first year, despite her visits home, he morfed into being our cat. My wife's and mine. At times he was a pain in the ass. With me, I'd "shusssh" him and he'd never make a sound. Sandy would say "he's scared of you." I'd say "he respects me." The minute Sandy opens her eyes, he's up, loud and obnoxious. She'd try and shusssh him, which would only encourage him to be more vocal. I simply laughed at them both.

For a stray, he was the perfect animal. He never clawed furniture. Never sprayed. Once and ONLY once did he make the mistake of jumping up on the counter. He was a lap cat. Always, always, he had to be between us. On the couch, in bed. If we were sitting alone, up he'd come, purring, head butting a hand or an arm in order to make his presence known. "Scratch me, brush me, pet me you silly human. That's what you're here for."

Over the years, we'd get other visitors. Other strays that somehow found their way to our front door. Sylvia, Lucy, Olivia. Osh would hiss, hide, pout and make his general displeasure with the interloper, quite clear. I'd chastise him for his behavior. "Have you forgotten how YOU came to be in this house you little four legged turd? Stop it!" Nothing doing. It was his domain and he wasn't going to share it with anyone else. No way, no how. We found fantastic homes for all the others, but our place was a one cat house.

We grow catnip. He'd lay in it and get high. Suddenly out of the blue, TURBO KITTY would appear. He'd tear across the house like his tail's on fire. He'd pounce on his toys, batting and chasing them under every piece of furniture and then look around with that "Well?...Are you going to dig them out for me or not? I obviously can't reach under there to get them?" Sigh!

Stupid cat.

Sandy tried to kill him once. We fed him dry food exclusively. Sandy didn't want to mess with wet food. He never was a big drinker of water. He ended up with a major feline urinary tract infection. Sandy felt really guilty. No more dry food. All wet food from now on. We discovered that 98% of the pet food out there is made of crap. We searched and searched. He became a Tiki Cat kitty. All natural/organic. Fit for human consumption food.

He had a routine. Up in the morning. Eat a bit, go outside. Come back in, sit next to the cupboard and vocalize his desire for treats. Feline Greenies were his favorite. He'd scarf a small handful of those and then back outside for the day. In the evenings, more Tiki Cat and then his "evening" treats before settling in.

Now and again, Jungle Kitty would make a kill. He'd hide in the Mondo grass and Liriope, patiently waiting for a bird to land. The remains proudly presented, more often than not, to Sandy as an offering to "The biped that loves me most." I'd get the call. "He killed a bird. It's gross. You HAVE to take care of it when you get home." Yea, yea...ok.

CICADA CAT LIVES!!! I thought he had gone rabid or mad. Sitting there, his mouth started to buzz and twitch uncontrollably. Scared the crap outta me. "What the hell?" It stopped as suddenly as it started. "Wow...that was weird. Must have had too much caffeine this morning." Then it happened again. "WHAT?!!" Finally notice the large bug sticking partway out of his mouth as it begins to buzz again and his whiskers twitching all over the place.

Stupid cat.

Every year, his visit to the vet. Every year, "He's fine. Growing older but not up" as Jimmy Buffet said. A couple of teeth removed three years ago. A bit of a limp. Bought him some kitty steps so he didn't have to jump up/off our king size bed. Cataracts building on his eyes. Still in good health overall. He started to slow down. More naps on the front bed or on his bench in front of the window. Complain loudly when it was cold outside. Bask all day in the sun when it was warm. Terrified of thunderstorms. Loved laying in front of the fireplace.

He ALWAYS has to be touching. Didn't matter that he was right up against you, one paw was out making contact. The claws would extend and retract just enuff to make his presence known. That would drive me nuts. "Can't you just lay there and be happy next to us? MUST you claw?" That "You're kidding, right?" look on his face. He'd claw a bit deeper, causing me to jump and I'd thump him. "Stop it! NOW!" That lasted all of 3 nanoseconds. Sigh!

Stupid cat.

Sandy noticed his breath was really bad. An unscheduled visit to the doctor. He's down 2 lbs. Scrape the built up tarter from his teeth and notice an anomaly with his tongue. "I don't like the look of that. Let's keep him overnight, take a sampling and do a biopsy. Scott, this probably isn't going to be good, but let's wait and see. I'm seeing more and more cancer in cats these days. In the meantime, if it is cancer, here's what we can do...."

Cancer? He can't have cancer. I call Sandy. She asks all the questions of me, that I couldn't or didn't know to ask the doc. I can't answer her. She and the vet talk the next day. We go and pick him up. He's a little out of it from the meds/narcotics. Couple days later he seems to have his kitty back. He's eating pretty good. Having taken part of his tongue though, he's having some difficulty, but it doesn't appear insurmountable.

The call comes. It's Squamous Carcinoma. I've kind of prepared myself for this, but it's still devastating. There's treatment, but it won't do a lot of good. Sandy and I have zero desire to put him through chemo and radiation. They'll most likely have to take even more of his tongue. No, no no. A cat's tongue is their everything! He'll have trouble eating, grooming, etc.

When I chastise Osh, Sandy would say I didn't love him. I'd facetiously tell her she was right, I could take or leave him and we should find him another home. Truth is, he always found a welcome place in my lap or next to me. There was always a hand ready to brush or unconsciously scratch him for hours on end. I called Sandy with the prognosis. I could barely control the tears.

Stupid cat.

We discuss it and decide that as long as he doesn't appear to be having too much trouble eating, isn't in any apparent pain, maintains his weight and has his "kitty," we'll continue to soldier on. In the event he begins to deteriorate, we'll put him to sleep. Neither one of us will prolong his life for our benefit.

That lasted all of about two weeks. We kept a close eye on him for any signs of change. He stopped eating. No matter what we put down for him, hand feed him, chop up into really, really, really small pieces, he can't eat. We are facing the reality that this creature, who decided fifteen years ago that Casa 1310, despite my protests, was going to be his home, is dying.

We put him down yesterday. I held him close, rocking him for the majority of his last minutes. He stopped breathing with my hands stroking the length of his body and tears flowing. He had a good, comfortable, spoiled life. I'm lost. He wasn't between us last night purring and he didn't greet me at the top of the stairs at 5:30 this morning, complaining because his food bowl was somehow, mysteriously empty. A few toys remain out and about. The pot of catnip seems to have grown exponentially overnight as if to say "Osh where are you? Come to me...I am here for you." Reminders that this cat; who gave us unconditional, love and affection, an animal with a brain the size of a pea, had a profound impact on our lives. His absence, has reduced this supposedly rational, intelligent, mature, thinking human biped to a sobbing, sniffling, runny nosed wreck.

Stupid Cat. Damn I miss you.