Not for the last time…goodbye Paco, my fuzzy little best dude.
Courtesy of featured comments, most regulars here are aware that I had to put down my beloved critter for 12 years last week. While never easy, I’m a believer in pet euthanasia, because they certainly can’t decide when it’s time for themselves, and in their little minds, it’s never time. It’s that innocent optimism, actually, that marks the best pets. Their primary job is to be our companion, and they all deliver in many, many ways.
I’ve had cats and dogs and honestly have no preference; my old Labrador retriever Ike, for instance, lasted 16 years and was only done in by arthritis, while my old cat Pebbles suffered through some sort of systemic break at 16 as well, forcing her end. I loved them both equally and fervently, and they were excellent companions. And they were largely happy, well-adjusted pets until they fell ill.
Paco was more than that.
In the summer of 2012, I was an overweight pack-and-a-half daily smoker, who was suffering from the aftereffects of a divorce and drinking entirely too much. After leaving my now ex-wife roughly a year before, I forced myself through a couple of months of existence at my now-departed parent’s place before eventually signing a lease on a smallish one-bedroom apartment, which I figured would be a weigh station to reclaiming my life. The reality was far darker; I was drinking myself to sleep every night and clinging to work as a beacon of sanity (never a good idea), and the apartment was a place to do just that, as well as eventually cycle through online dates that were every bit as desperate and pathetic as I was.
One of these dates happened to be a veterinarian. We dated for about four months in total, and the ‘relationship’, such as it was, was barely memorable…with one exception. Early on, I had idly mentioned that I was tired of living alone and was considering adopting a cat. Two days later, she emailed me this pic.
I couldn’t help it. I asked.
Turns out they were littermates and were inseparable, often ignoring the rest of their sibs in favor of playing with each other and coordinating their own eating habits. Needless to say, I was almost sold, but figured I’d have to meet them before making any sort of final decision. I should also note that I hadn’t owned a male cat before; the impressions I got from former owners was that males are rowdier, more independent and more destructive, but less affectionate. The lesson: don’t listen to former owners.
Meeting them went smoothly, and before I knew it, both kittens – Paco and Chica, which I chose – had had shots and a general medical once-over and were tucked into a carrier. I brought them home, they spilled out of the carrier and history unfolded.
One afternoon about two weeks later, Paco was moseying around the apartment while I was working, so I took a break and laid down on the couch. He’d gotten more adventurous, and by then, he’d assumed knowledge of the apartment’s nooks and crannies and was taking full advantage of them. He hopped up on the sofa and tentatively onto my chest, staring intently at me. I blinked, and he proceeded to take a tiny paw and place it very gently over my left eye. I winked with my right eye, and he did the same. In his fascination, we did this for about 20 minutes as I marveled over how easy it can be to amuse a kitten.
Somehow, this seemingly innocuous scene was enough to fully bond him to me. For the next 12 years, I didn’t spend a day at home without at least four hours of Paco on my lap, and another eight in my bed. The routine for both cats became so ingrained that they (as all cats do) became masters of anticipating the exact moments I’d wake up to feed them, or when they could bug me for treats, or just sense the position I’d recline on the couch in that facilitated maximum lap time.
While Chica was and remains much more mellow and catlike, Paco was, in modern parlance, in my face constantly until the end. He loved to play; most of the cat toys still scattered around the house were his exclusively, the carcasses of his repeated mock killings with gusto over the years. He had a notable licking fixation, which was occasionally gross if he’s just finished grooming himself, but was awfully cute and amusing most of the time. Indeed, he seemed almost dog-like at times in his responses.
In 2013, my father passed after a fortunately-brief bout of influenza led to a severe case of pneumonia. My father was a towering figure in my life, so needless to say, emotional distance was tough if not impossible, at least initially after he’d gotten sick. I spent many days in bed mourning Dad, and would’ve been miserably alone…if not for the cats, who, as most cat owners will tell you, have an innate sense of tragedy in their owners’ lives. I was often blanketed with cats during those times, as they seemed to figure I’d be happier with their fur all over me during times of crisis.
They were right.
During the next few years, I rebuilt my finances and my life, and moved into a much larger, more comfortable condo, and I pulled my critters, as I’d come to call them, into my bigger and plushier world. They happily dove in, quickly making the place into their abode where I was welcome. I met my girlfriend around this time, and the cats accepted her with the same abrupt silliness and ingratiating cuteness all cats herald their presence with. She was smitten, and still is.
Through it all, both cats remained remarkably healthy. Considering they were indoor cats, I wasn’t too surprised by this. Not being exposed to predators, other cats and cars can go a long way towards preserving a cat’s life. But it was rather uncanny – other than booster shots, my cats had no vet visits for 12 years. Good genes, I guess.
In 2019, after a long, brutal bout with Parkinson’s Disease, my mother mercifully passed on. During the years leading up to this point, I’d again been in emotional distress, as Parkinson’s is a particularly cruel affliction that robs its victims of almost everything before its inglorious endpoint arrives. My poor girlfriend was despondent, unsure of how to approach me or extend sympathy. For a period of two to three months, the cats, and Paco in particular, were essentially glued to me, which I can only interpret, again, as their sensing my need to just be near something living. They understood their assignment well, as I shudder to think how long those doldrums would have lasted without their intervention and presence.
Good, faithful girlfriends are a great support, but nothing tops the immediacy of a cat’s attention.
The next year, when the COVID-19 pandemic unfurled across the globe, I was more or less a prisoner like everyone else. I don’t know how I would’ve survived those long weeks of no human contact without those little furry goofballs there to bounce thoughts off of. They became my key motivation to get out of bed during that time, which was undoubtedly among the weirdest in recent memory.
I’ve lost friends over the years as well, as everyone eventually does. Again, the best support I could often rely on was found in my little furry stalwarts, who asked for no more than room and board…and a lap to curl up on.
But life moves on. I’ve dropped about 20 pounds since 2012, quit smoking and adopted a much healthier lifestyle, and feel much better overall about life and my place in it. And I think I have my cats to thank for it.
A couple of months ago, Paco became ill, suffering through bladder stones that, as most male cat owners are likely aware, often spells the end of the proverbial road for male cats. Prescription food didn’t solve the problem, and surgery was recommended, with the caveat that the stones were likely to reoccur in older cats. As I watched Paco struggle and build mammoth tolerances to his many painkillers, I decided it was his time. There’s an old line in a Star Trek movie about no-win situations, and sadly, Paco and I were faced with his own Kobayashi Maru.
Still, he left me with some of the happiest pet memories I’ll ever have. He came to me at a time when I needed him most and he delivered every day of his short life.
We should all be so lucky.
“Just a cat”, indeed.
