By the time he was 2, Zeus had had 4 homes. Adopted from a shelter by an elderly woman, the tiny white kitten had barely reached the 6 month mark before a broken hip resulted in his owner’s move to a nursing home and he found himself in the care of his owner’s 16-year-old neighbor, Jessica. In an unhappy home, Zeus was the girl’s sole source of happiness. She doted upon him over the next year and he grew fiercely close to her. By the time she had turned 17, Jessica had met a boy, gotten pregnant, gotten dumped, and found a lesbian girlfriend. She also found herself on the street until, per her mother’s orders, she gave up her baby and her girlfriend. To drive home the importance of doing that, her mother refused to give Zeus to her. Though she loved her cat, Jessica loved her baby and her girlfriend more and regretfully moved away. Her plan foiled and having no interest in taking care of a cat, Jessica’s mother gave the cat to a co-worker who found homes for displaced animals. Within days, the woman had found the now adult cat a home with my friends, DuShawn and Patrice.

From his first moment in their home, Zeus was reclusive. After all the upheaval and loss in his short life, he seemed unable to build any new relationships. He would accept a scratch behind the ears or a pat on the back, but he would not actively seek it out. He seemed committed to staying out of everyone’s way, choosing to sit in a window seat he quickly adopted as his own and stare out the window for hours. His plan was successful — the other household pets seemed oblivious to his presence.

The one source of potential interaction was in the form of another cat in the household, Francine. Woefully smitten with her, Zeus would follow her around, mewling plaintively. But an avowed feline feminist, Francine was having none of it. She would give him a dismissive look and saunter off for a sunbathing session in front of the terrace doors. A few months into his pursuit of her, Zeus abandoned any hope of forming a connection and returned to his window, relegated to a life amidst a sea of others yet ultimately alone. He stayed there for most of the next 5 years.

Last weekend, as I was heading to Chicago for IML, DuShawn and Patrice took a long weekend to visit family. As we always do, Mama M and I stepped up as caretakers for their motley crew of pets. The dotty old lady went over and did the requisite feeding and watering, fawning and gushing over whichever “ol’ pretty boy/ol’ sexy girl” was competing for her attention at the moment. All was well she reported.

Until I came home on Sunday morning.

Entering the house, the first thing I noticed was that Zeus wasn’t in his customary window. The thought was fleeting however as Francine and her brother, Francois, and the dogs, Clem and Willow, came bounding up, desperate for some human affection (and treats). After my usual over dramatic (you expected less?) play session — which involves me “collapsing” under the weight of their frenzied pleas for attention and rolling around on the floor tickling, scratching, kissing, and receiving a multitude of kisses — I got up and made my rounds. Water? Check. Food? Check. Litter pan?

Whoa.

That’s when I found him.

Curled up in a ball in the litter pan was Zeus. His brilliant white coat seemed even more so in contrast with the clay litter that comprised his bed. I stood there for a moment, staring. Having had cats of my own for as long as I can remember, I have never seen any one of them take an impromptu nap in their waste receptacle.

I knelt down beside the pan. “Zeus?”

No movement.

“Zeus? Buddy…?”

Nothing.

Tentatively, I reached out and gently shook him. I could tell from the moment I touched him that rigor mortis had set in. I sat there for a while staring at the tiny white corpse. Willow came in, looked at me, then Zeus, and wandered back out. Even in death, he seemed invisible. The thing that struck me most was that he must have felt so alone and isolated from everyone around him, that his final act was to simply curl up and die in a way that necessitated the least fuss for all concerned. In a lot of ways, I can relate.

I got a garbage bag and gently lifted him into it, wrapping it around him carefully and then placed him in another. I found an appropriate sized Amazon box in the garage and placed him inside, then sealed the box with duct tape. Since DuShawn and Patrice would be home in the morning, I took the box and placed it in two more garbage bags, sealing those with tape as well, and put it in the freezer compartment of the “beer fridge” in the garage.

A week later, I can’t get the image of Zeus in the pan out of my mind. What went through his mind in his final moments? Was it thoughts of the woman who rescued him from the shelter and then disappeared from his life in a flash? Of the teenage girl he adored who left one day never to return? Did he feel unloved, unwanted? Was the thought of forming another bond more than he could risk? Why didn’t he simply allow himself a few final moments of pleasure curled up in that sunny window as he passed? I’ll never know, but I hope wherever he is, he feels love and some sort of peace.

Zeus
2000-2007

He’d been sick for a couple of months, and I could see the decline in his health. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I’d tried to tell myself that he was looking better, winning the battle against the disease that was eating away at him.

He’d gone from 20 pounds in February to 14 by the end of November. Since then, he’d been holding steady, eating like a horse, mooching a bite of whatever I was having, giving me Bambi eyes to con a treat. About two weeks ago, he started having trouble keeping his dry food down, so I switched him over to moist. That stopped the vomiting and I thought we were back on track.

Then seemingly overnight, he looked as though he had shrunk.

By the time we went to vet on Saturday morning, he was down to 8 pounds. Nearly half of what he weighed 2 months ago. I knew what the vet was going to tell me before I left the house: I could keep him around a little longer, but I needed to consider any pain he might be in and the quality of life he would have during his final days.

I sat in that tiny room with the cold stainless steel table and the uncomfortable resin chair for half an hour, cradling Truman in my arms, scratching behind his ears and looking into his eyes, wishing he could tell me what to do. The selfish part of me wanted to take him back home and let him live out whatever time he had with Josie and myself, removing any choice to be made on my part. The responsible part of me knew he was suffering and that prolonging it was for me, not him.

So now I sit here, nearly a week later, wondering if he hated me for the decision I made for him.

If he knew what was happening as I stroked his head while the vet administered the shot.

And if he knew just how much I loved him.

Truman

May 30, 1993 – January 27, 2007

As the local weather gurus were touting a winter storm passing through the area today as the next ice age (“Stay inside and stay tuned to NewsWeather 7 for the latest updates! And don’t change that channel…you could freeze to death or get cancer!”), anxious mothers packed the local grocery stores to stock up on cocoa and canned soup; the elderly rushed out to procure their life extending prescriptions; and yours truly rushed out to Best Buy and Barnes and Noble for a fix before the artic onslaught. Maybe it’s me, but there’s something sort of magical about the first winter storm of the season. The wind whistling outside, the glistening icey branches of the trees, the snow falling in the streetlights — looking at it from my window, I feel alone in a different way than I usually do. Not a bad different, just…different.

* * * * *

Sitting here at 2am, listening to the sleet on the windows and looking at my cat Truman, with his perpetually furrowed brow, I wonder what he would be like if I had been even remotely happy during his formative stages. Soon to be thirteen, he has spent most of his adult life walking around our various homes, “grumbling” (a very distinctive growl/mewl/whine blend) and guarding me. Highly resistant to most any type of affection unless he specifically seeks it out, Truman prefers instead to sit at arm’s length and watch me with my other cat, Josie. He seems to live vicariously through the interactions of others viewed from afar. Like father, like son.

Given to me during the last months of my time with Gregg, Truman was the only thing I had during that time that was consistent. I would get up, go to work, come home, go straight to bed, then start the whole thing over the next day. I would sleep away my days off. And through it all, was this sweet little kitten by my side, content to be there, never demanding any of the attention he needed and deserved.

As I type this, a curled up Josie asleep in my lap, Truman is sitting across the room, watching me and I can see the loneliness in his face, I can tell he wants to come over and be a part of our little family. I also know something inside won’t let him and I’m sorry I created that in him because I know how it feels — I don’t allow anyone to get too close and I rarely make any effort to maintain relationships simply because I don’t know how any more.

And I’m not sure what sucks more: feeling like that or having reached a point where I’ve made peace with it.