Goodbye, Lannister

I’m not going to federate this post, but my cat was put to sleep this morning and I want to talk about him a little.

We met in PetSmart. My daughter was working there at the time, so I’d drop by now and then. They have an area where local shelters can display the pets they have for adoption. My previous cat had died of fecal failure a few months before, but I wasn’t really expecting to adopt another companion so soon.

They had let some of the cats and kittens roam around behind the cages a bit. Among all the normal sized cats and kittens was one huge dark shaved cat who just stood out from the others. He was big. I didn’t know much about Maine Coons back then, but he was running around back there, looking for treats, just being a cat.

I couldn’t get him out of my head. I went back the next weekend, but he wasn’t there. I talked to the people there, and they said he hadn’t been adopted, they just hadn’t happened to bring him. He was a stray, and his long fur had been so matted that they had to shave him to get him clean. He was two years old at that time, 2011, so we figured he was born in 2009.

I filled out the forms, had the interview about home conditions, promised to never have his claws pulled and never to let him roam around outside, and then I took him home. The shelter had named him “Prince”. I dunno. I thought he looked like a little lion. Game of Thrones was playing at the time, and lions were the totem animal for the Lannisters, so I thought he should be Lannister. I figured people would immediately recognize the name and wonder why I named him after characters in a fantasy novel, but actually, nobody at all had any idea where the name came from. I got zero questions about it.

He was a warm, loving, cuddly cat. He loved to scratch. We had so many different kinds of scratch pads, and he loved them all.

When he was adopted, I was living in an apartment complex. He begged and begged to be let out onto the balcony to sit and watch the kids in the other apartments, the birds, the trees, and the fireflies we’d get in the summer. I was worried, at first, that he would try to jump off (about ten feet; he’d probably have been fine if he did try). He never did. He was just content to watch.

Apartment rents were insane. I realized that I could save money by just buying a house and pay less in mortgage that I did on rent. And I was right. So I bought a house. No balcony, though. Lani never did forgive me for that. When I got the keys to the house, I brought Lani over to show him the place. I opened the cat carrier and let him out. After about a minute, he got back in the carrier, ready to go. I’d chosen poorly. He expected better. We should stay in the place with a balcony.

Lani soon made my house his home. First off, he needed to have a talk with me about my dresser. I thought the top of the dresser would be a good place for pictures, jewelry, etc. He thought it would be a good place for a cat. He won. I set a blanket and a cat bed up there and now that was his place to stay. His alone. Until my son adopted Whitten, who never let any other cat’s desires influence what he did.

We had three cats at one time; Lani, my boyfriend’s similarly colored but much skinnier cat Oliver, and my son’s cat, Whitten. Oliver was not a cat who needed other cats. He decided that he lived in our office, and the other cats were not usually allowed in. Us humans weren’t keeping them out. Oliver would just glare at them and yowl a little bit to keep them away. After his death, the remaining two cats eventually colonized the office.

Lani intended to do the same to our bedroom, but Whitten never paid attention to that. Lani and Whitten were like father and son. Lani would groom Whitten, and tolerate Whitten trying to taunt and play with him until he just reached the end of his rope and start hissing. Whitten is the kind of cat who is calm and playful and nice until the murder switch is thrown.

Lannister was diagnosed with chronic kidney disease last February. His doctor said, in a cat as old as he was, there was a good chance he would die of old age before the kidneys failed. He had the prescription food, he had food and water in various places around the house so he never had to go far, and he had a loving family. But he never got well. He stabilized for several months, but come autumn, he wasn’t eating as much, and he was having trouble jumping up on the dresser, so he abandoned “his” place. He stopped being able to climb the cat perch. He used to wake me up every morning by jumping on the bed and sleeping on my pillow, curled up near my head. He gave that up.

The vet two weeks ago said he’d lost two and a half pounds since the last time he was seen in late summer. Things took a rapid turn for the worse after that. He stayed under the bed, only coming out to drink more water. He was always thirsty. His breathing was thready; he couldn’t purr any more and only made odd sounds when he tried. He couldn’t talk. He didn’t want to cuddle with anyone.

I brought him to the vets to see if there was anything they could do, but I knew what they were going to tell me. He’d lost two more pounds in those two weeks. Even with all his drinking, he was dehydrated. His breathing was shallow. They recommended euthanasia.

He didn’t want to go. We didn’t want him to go. My son left work to be there when he passed.

There is a hole in my heart. He joins my daughter Shannon, and my other cats through the years (Lochinvar, Nostromo, and Isis) in Heaven. I hope he is waking up to find himself on a sunny balcony with Shannon brushing his fur now. I’d like to think that.