Just Like That

For approximately two hours that evening I turned my head back and forth about 45 degrees between the computer screen and the tv with my back to the rest of the living room.

At a certain point early on, the cats were making noise in the bedroom, but it seemed like their usual romp, only a little more frantic, before they settled down for a nap.

I got up once and saw Scampolo fully stretched out on his side on the floor next to the armchair, top paw daintily crossed over the other, behind me, but I didn’t think twice as I again sat down at the computer, back turned to the rest of my little world.

When I concluded my umpteenth check of inboxes and solitaire (to keep my mind sharp, but I play too much to avoid productive work), I turned and saw Scampolo in the exact same position the last time I looked, and it hit me. Oh, no.

I studied him on the floor and then with trepidation reached down to touch him ever so lightly, to wake him. He was cold and rigid. Gone, without a peep, two feet behind my back.

I let out a string of “Oh, God, nos,” but I didn’t want to wail in front of the other cats who were lolling about, oblivious.

I dressed in a hurry, put his stiff body into a carrier and got him to the vet just before midnight.

The vet confirmed what was evident and I asked her for time alone to say good-bye. I cried a little as I carressed and kissed his head, his fur still soft to my touch, and took a few photos on my cell phone of my beautiful little boy in death, his beautiful black eyes now closed forever.

Scampolo grew up but remained petite, pretty enough to be a girl with those dark eyes and soft black and white coat, and always most affectionate, just like his brother Pisellino, who is still with me but thinning with the years. They were kittens and too sweet for life on the street. One afternoon I picked them up without a struggle, placed them in a carrier and brought them home with me. They were/are all one could ask for in a cat. I could take Scampolo in my arms any time of the day or night and give him a million little kisses. Sometimes he would perch on my shoulder and fall asleep, and I would fall asleep with him, feeling the light vibrations of his purring on my skin. He purred day and night, even while he slept. Moments of pure bliss, waiting for the abyss. Now he slept alone.

Except for Henry (the ambassador), who may have died of a heart attack while I was running to the vet to save him, and frail old Arlene, who died of kidney failure on the couch, sleeping among the other cats, before I knew what kidney failure was, the other cats I have lost all had long illnesses. I had time to prepare, time to give medication to delay the inevitable, time to say good-bye, time to be good to them, before the last taxi ride to the vet. 

Chocolate (the greatest love of all), Mimi (her sister, who I didn’t love enough), Cubby Duccio (the youngest and tiniest, the last cat I took in), Nuvola (my dainty princess), Marshmallow (who I didn’t love as much as he loved me and didn’t really want but felt compassion for), I let them linger in pain until the very end. I didn’t really want Arlene, either, but she couldn’t survive on the street much longer in her condition and I never gave her the love she gave me so I must remember her here. I watched them suffer but I couldn’t bring myself to take them on that last taxi ride until they were practically unconscious. I prayed to God for a miracle for each and every cat I have lost. I wanted to keep them forever.

Before I left Scampolo I told the vet she could call me at any hour if he returned like Lazarus. She said there would be no miracle. I hoped she would call, but I didn’t really believe.

Still, I ask God daily to bless them, love them and protect them, in death as in life.

(April 28/29, 2010)