Already Missing Rocky

 

The vet turned to me, his eyes compassionate. “Are you ready?” In one hand, he held the shaved paw of my cat Rocky. In the other was a needle. I looked at Rocky, and to my relief, he seemed serene. Maybe he didn’t know what was happening. Maybe he did. I looked at this animal that had been with me sixteen years and swallowed back tears. “I’m ready.”

This beautiful brown and gray tabby had been sick the past few months. When I took him to the vet weeks earlier, a blood test revealed hyperthyroidism. He also noted that Rocky’s belly seemed enlarged. “I’ll run an x-ray next time,” he said. “Let’s first try medicine.”

Weeks later Rocky wasn’t any better, if anything he seemed worse. That’s when the vet felt his belly again. “He has a large mass in there,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done.”

Part of me was relieved. Lately Rocky had a pattern of being ravenous, but not able to hold anything down. Our sleep was interrupted from the sound of poor Rocky getting sick, sometimes several times a night. He was suffering.

And yet another part didn’t want to accept this. Rocky had been part of my life for almost two decades. I couldn’t imagine saying goodbye.

He was once the smallest of kittens; so tiny he could stand on my outstretched palms. He had had a bad cold that first night and had to be fed with a dropper. I worried he wouldn’t make it and kept him in our bathroom with newspapers on the floor and a tiny cardboard litter box. But he did make it.

Rocky grew into a graceful kitty with plush fur and a luxurious thick tail, which we sensed he was proud of. Several feline lovers pronounced him one of the most beautiful cats they’d seen with his perfectly symmetrical markings and wide, olive green eyes.

Many afternoons he’d sit on my lap while I read, the only lap he sat on in our family. I loved how he rubbed against my ankles as I opened his cat food. I loved how he’d lap up his favorite snack, a dab of butter. I loved how he always found the warmest spot of sun on a cold January morning or the coolest piece of floor in July.

I’d like to report that Rocky was the bravest of beasts, but alas…he was a sissy. At the least sign of danger (like a blue jay flying by), he’d go into full panic and careen under our bed. Over the past few years, poor Rocky never knew what to make of our latest dog – yappy, bossy terrier Libby. But he did his best in the face of this canine typhoon. Rocky’s vulnerability and shyness only made me love him more.

He grew heartbreaking gaunt with time, his luxurious tail thin and mangy. His spine became ridged and jagged. He was stone-deaf and arthritic. Old age had finally caught up to this beautiful kitty.

At the vet, my son Patrick and I watched the needle inserted into Rocky’s vein. The cat showed no distress or pain. All the time I stood in front of him, touching his velvety nose as I’d done so many times before. “I love you,” I said, like he was going far away and in many ways, he was.

A few seconds later Rocky slowly collapsed to the table and was still. His eyes stayed open, but unseeing. Death could not have been more swift or gentle. Yet I didn’t expect the sight to hit me so hard. A minute ago he’d been alive and even purring as I hugged him goodbye. And now he was gone forever. Patrick held me as I cried.

And yes, there are bigger losses in life. You just have to turn on the news or talk to almost anyone. And in the context of those, I know this is a small one. But love is love. And grief is grief. And it all hurts.

A few days later, I was still sniffling over Rocky. Mornings are hardest. I keep seeing him everywhere. “I hope you made it to the other side,” I said out loud, although I wasn’t sure what that even meant.

I took my tea to my bedroom and sat down when I noticed a surprising sight. The Gerber daisy on my bureau had sprouted a beautiful red flower. It had never bloomed before.

For some reason, this flower brought me comfort. Maybe this was the universe’s way of saying the kitty was fine. Rocky had made it.

I so wanted to believe that. But I’ll always miss him.

 

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