31 May Considering a Cat

“For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.” ~ Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno (For I will consider my cat Jeoffry)

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I took the first week of May off to tackle the yard and whip my gardens into shape, and maybe get to a few small house projects too. My cat Tristan had other plans.

Early Sunday morning, Tris started to cry; something was wrong. After a few hours on the couch with him, I called my vet. It was Sunday, so I couldn’t talk to anyone. Same with the other local vets I tried. All had the same message: Call VESH. 

So, Tris and I headed down to South Deerfield. As soon as we got in the car, he started to meow – he hated the car. It gave me hope: He couldn’t be that sick if he was able to caterwaul. We arrived at the animal hospital; I checked Tris in and waited for hours, but finally went home without him.

Monday was mostly bad news – Tris wouldn’t eat. He was dehydrated. His tests had revealed a liver problem, but also (maybe?) something with his gallbladder, pancreas and heart.

Tuesday morning, I went down to visit him, bringing his robot blanket and some sliced turkey. As soon as I put his blanket on the floor, he walked over and lay down. I lay down next to him for an hour. It was a “no” to turkey. More bad test results in the afternoon. He still wouldn’t eat.

By Wednesday, after finally getting to talk to my vet, it was clear there was nothing to be done. I brought Tris home around noon. A vet from the practice would come to my house to euthanize him. 

Back home, Tris got on the couch and I curled up next to him. As we sat together, it slowly transformed from a dismal rainy day into the most beautiful afternoon. The sun came out, puffy white clouds appeared, there was a light breeze – I opened a window and the room filled with bird songs. Tris seemed to perk up when he heard them, but didn’t go over to the window. Petting him, the familiar softness under my hand, I pretended it was just any day, that tomorrow I would get up and he would still be there. 

The vet arrived at six o’clock. Lola suddenly appeared, curious about our visitor. Right before Tris’s first injection, she reached up on the couch and touched her nose to Tris’s, then sat down a few feet away. One shot, then another. 

It was incredibly peaceful, a final, tiny, inadequate gift to make up for his last few days, for the decision I had made.

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Tris was my parents’ cat. Dad and my sister Gill went to their local shelter and picked him out. He was christened the Big Bazoo: tall, tubby, chatty, the softest color orange, silky-soft fur. We all agreed that he was a great cat.

When my parents moved to a retirement community nearby, they decided they would take their Scottie dog but not Tris: One pet was enough. Gill was going to take him, then couldn’t. Suddenly it was November, my parents’ house was sold, and Tris had no place to go. He came to Vermont.

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Tristan was a snuggler but not a lap-sitter: He liked to stretch out alongside me and make biscuits. He was a very quiet sleeper; once he settled down he didn’t move much, but he would purr for what seemed like hours. He loved a nap, anytime, anywhere, especially with Gracie Beans for company. He was my biscuit-making bunny boy.

He would lie on his back in the silliest poses, stretching out his paws like a hammy Shakespearean actor (more Falstaff than Hamlet) practicing a soliloquy. If I interrupted him mid-wriggle, he would fold his paws in front of his chest, looking mildly offended that I had the nerve to laugh. He was ridiculous.

He clawed the rugs relentlessly, ignored me when I yelled at him, insisted on chasing Lola Bunny when she clearly didn’t like it, couldn’t catch a mouse, and wanted more Greenies than he was allowed to have – always. He was annoying.

He couldn’t do anything without announcing it first (well, maybe not trying to steal the girls’ food) with a chirp or a brrrp or a burble. I don’t think I ever heard him hiss. If I said his name, he would tilt his head toward me – eyes closed, purring away – and wait for the smooch he knew was coming. He was adorable.

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In the end, I had Tristan for over 11 years. He was with me through three jobs, two moves, one pandemic. Losing my dad. He lived with four other cats in total, two long gone, two still with me.

I’ll make a stone with his name and put it in my garden with Nellie and Charlotte’s and Dad’s. If he needed an epitaph, it would be —

He was the sweetest boy.

~Hilary Farquhar