The Morning The Cat Didn’t Wake Me

 

Oh my God, I thought, waking an hour later than usual. Where’s Rocky? He always roused me at the crack of dawn with his loud “Meoooowwww!” I recently wrote a post about this 16-year-old deaf, geriatric cat. And the looming, sad morning he might not come into our room and start my day. Was this it?

A sense of dread rose as I got out of bed. I’d heard tales of older pets dying in the middle of the night. The owners had come out in the morning to find their beloved cat or dog passed away. I looked around our bedroom. Rocky wasn’t there.

I splashed cold water on my face, threw on my bathrobe, and walked through the house to the kitchen, calling for him. Rocky wasn’t in the living room or dining room. That left the kitchen. He never went to any other part of the house. I didn’t want to face this, but if now was Rocky’s time, there was nothing to be done. Death was part of life, I told myself, although my heart would break.

The strange thing was that Rocky seemed spry lately. His appetite was good for an old man. He even sometimes jumped on the kitchen counter for something enticing, like a tub of butter or chicken salad. Could a pet be vital one moment and gone the next? I had heard of humans who sat, closed their eyes, and passed. Did animals do the same?

The light was on in the kitchen. My mom, who lives with us, was getting her breakfast. The cat was always sleeping, so if she saw him lying there, she wouldn’t have noticed anything strange.

I looked around… and there by the dog’s water bowl was Rocky. He lay on his back, unmoving. Oh my God.

I told my mother what was going on. She gasped as we both approached the kitty.

Rocky’s body lay still. Tears welled up. We’d had this animal longer than any pet in our marriage. When I first got Rocky he was so small, he could stand in my outstretched palms. He was afraid of our dog Ren, but even being eight weeks old, had stood on his tiny toes and hissed. I’d seen this animal through an ornery adolescence, plump middle age, and now fragile later years. I’d spent many a happy hour reading, with Rocky on my lap, purring.

Today my mom and I stood before him, not sure what to do. I didn’t want to reach out and touch his brown and black tabby fur, not yet. I couldn’t bear to feel this kitty’s once warm, sweet body cold and lifeless. I didn’t want this to be real.

I pushed away thoughts of having to wrap him in a towel and bring him to the vet. He’d be cremated like all our animals over the decades. “Do you want the remains?” the assistant would ask. “No,” I’d say, as I always did. I didn’t want to remember any of our pets that way.

The saddest part was I knew Rocky was probably going to be our last feline. I had loved all our kitties, but our dog — willful, energetic terrier Libby — was like having fifty pets in one.  Plus, she didn’t play well with others. Rocky’s death would signal the end of a long era in our marriage.

My mother leaned forward. “He’s breathing.”

“What?”

Rocky’s eyes opened. He looked at us, perplexed, probably wondering why the humans were staring at him. “Meow!” he said, sounding annoyed, like we’d interrupted a good nap.

Mom and I sighed with relief. The joke was on us, thankfully. I smiled and knelt to pat the kitty. He’d grown so thin over the years. His back now felt ridged and jagged. Although still active, I knew it wouldn’t take much to lay him low.

Rocky rose and had his breakfast. Afterwards, I cuddled him like a baby. I was glad we could postpone the Grim Reaper at least for today. Lately, it seemed there was too much suffering and sadness in the world. I was happy for any reprieve.

I kissed Rocky’s velvety nose. “I’m glad you’re still with us,” Rocky’s green eyes did that slow cat blink.

I always felt it was his way of smiling.

 

(P.S. Rocky died peacefully in January of 2019).

 

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