One of the family cats had to be put to sleep today. He was twenty three, a remarkable age for a cat.
Norman was a mixed breed with a strong dose of Maine Coon. They apparently pick a person as a favorite, when he was young it was me, much to my wife's amusement. When he got old, he switched allegiance to our youngest boy, the traitor.
In his youth, he used up his nine lives, having several near death episodes, involving falling from trees, ( I caught him in a blanket) getting into a clothes dryer that then ran for quite some time, getting stuck in a compost heap and several medical emergencies involving fights. He was a difficult animal in many ways. When we had him fixed we discovered he had an "undescended testicle". Ka-ching! The various Vet bills were a challenge to a newlywed couple.
We dealt with his irascible and combative nature by trying to keep him indoors, with moderate success. Even when he was an old cat his territorial instincts were remarkable, a few years back a family of racoons came to our back sliding glass door. Our two other cats cowered, the young one got so scared he peed on the floor, and Norman charged the class so violently that he gave himself a bloody nose. He was a fighter but was always gentle with people and terrific with kids. One of his favorite pastimes when he was still young enough for nonsense was to bat a paper towel tube that had an electric razor going on the end I was holding. For the life of me I can't remember what in the Hell led to that discovery.
He stayed with us through three moves and two kids. As time passed, it begin to become a joke in the house that dad was sure Norman was almost done. That started about ten years ago. A while back a litter box became part of our master bathroom, and my wife hated it. The cat, by now almost toothless, was fed a diet of Natural Balance wet food, a brand that Dick Van Patten founded. Norman outlasted Dick, and I always blamed the man for keeping Norman alive.
My wife would get up three times a night to feed the old cat, and it drove us both crazy. I often joked about how happy we'd be when his turn was up. A couple years ago a Vet my wife knows examined him during a social visit, and pronounced him remarkably healthy, and said he might last for years and years. I inwardly cringed.
This morning his back legs wouldn't work. He yowled his displeasure. When the reality of him really being gone hit me, I found myself to be more emotional about it than I thought I'd be. My kids, both teens who had not known life without him, were devastated.
My wife took him to the Vet with the older boy, I said my goodbyes after he'd been put in the car, and the younger boy and I began to dig near his favorite spot in the back yard. A three foot hole in rocky soil reminded me that I'd not gotten any younger while Norman was with us. Well, the Marines did teach me how to dig, and the job got done as my son and I talked.
His body came back home in a white cardboard box. I used my dad's fishing knife to cut the tape, and opening the box showed he was completely wrapped up in a blue blanket. We drew the blanket back. The Vet had curled him up like he was sleeping, and his eyes were closed. They'd recently often been cloudy and would only sometimes clear up, my wife would see him bright eyed and announce that "Norman's here today!". She said he'd been bright eyed when the end came, but it went as well as these things can.
My wife asked me to say something after I'd lowered him into his grave. I found myself choking up pretty bad, and could only muster up something about how I'd read a chart on cat longevity, and a cat of 19-22 years was described as "amazing", but a cat of Norman's age was listed as "a remarkable individual". Everyone in the family took turns tossing in a shovelful of dirt, and I finished the job.
In a way, it's a blessing. The litter box will leave the bathroom, and my wife and I will have an uninterrupted night of sleep in our own home for the first time in years. I've finally gotten what I've said I wanted, and I wish it wasn't so.
Norman was a mixed breed with a strong dose of Maine Coon. They apparently pick a person as a favorite, when he was young it was me, much to my wife's amusement. When he got old, he switched allegiance to our youngest boy, the traitor.
In his youth, he used up his nine lives, having several near death episodes, involving falling from trees, ( I caught him in a blanket) getting into a clothes dryer that then ran for quite some time, getting stuck in a compost heap and several medical emergencies involving fights. He was a difficult animal in many ways. When we had him fixed we discovered he had an "undescended testicle". Ka-ching! The various Vet bills were a challenge to a newlywed couple.
We dealt with his irascible and combative nature by trying to keep him indoors, with moderate success. Even when he was an old cat his territorial instincts were remarkable, a few years back a family of racoons came to our back sliding glass door. Our two other cats cowered, the young one got so scared he peed on the floor, and Norman charged the class so violently that he gave himself a bloody nose. He was a fighter but was always gentle with people and terrific with kids. One of his favorite pastimes when he was still young enough for nonsense was to bat a paper towel tube that had an electric razor going on the end I was holding. For the life of me I can't remember what in the Hell led to that discovery.
He stayed with us through three moves and two kids. As time passed, it begin to become a joke in the house that dad was sure Norman was almost done. That started about ten years ago. A while back a litter box became part of our master bathroom, and my wife hated it. The cat, by now almost toothless, was fed a diet of Natural Balance wet food, a brand that Dick Van Patten founded. Norman outlasted Dick, and I always blamed the man for keeping Norman alive.
My wife would get up three times a night to feed the old cat, and it drove us both crazy. I often joked about how happy we'd be when his turn was up. A couple years ago a Vet my wife knows examined him during a social visit, and pronounced him remarkably healthy, and said he might last for years and years. I inwardly cringed.
This morning his back legs wouldn't work. He yowled his displeasure. When the reality of him really being gone hit me, I found myself to be more emotional about it than I thought I'd be. My kids, both teens who had not known life without him, were devastated.
My wife took him to the Vet with the older boy, I said my goodbyes after he'd been put in the car, and the younger boy and I began to dig near his favorite spot in the back yard. A three foot hole in rocky soil reminded me that I'd not gotten any younger while Norman was with us. Well, the Marines did teach me how to dig, and the job got done as my son and I talked.
His body came back home in a white cardboard box. I used my dad's fishing knife to cut the tape, and opening the box showed he was completely wrapped up in a blue blanket. We drew the blanket back. The Vet had curled him up like he was sleeping, and his eyes were closed. They'd recently often been cloudy and would only sometimes clear up, my wife would see him bright eyed and announce that "Norman's here today!". She said he'd been bright eyed when the end came, but it went as well as these things can.
My wife asked me to say something after I'd lowered him into his grave. I found myself choking up pretty bad, and could only muster up something about how I'd read a chart on cat longevity, and a cat of 19-22 years was described as "amazing", but a cat of Norman's age was listed as "a remarkable individual". Everyone in the family took turns tossing in a shovelful of dirt, and I finished the job.
In a way, it's a blessing. The litter box will leave the bathroom, and my wife and I will have an uninterrupted night of sleep in our own home for the first time in years. I've finally gotten what I've said I wanted, and I wish it wasn't so.
