Son of Timatollah

We put down our 15 or 16 year old (no one knows for sure) cat, Tom, yesterday. He was a good cat for us: hateful, mean, and cranky often, but affectionate in just the right ways, sometimes at the right times. I'll carry scars on my hands for years from plenty of fun and games until someone (me) got hurt with him. The Death Paw from behind the couch was always good for laughs until he drew blood.

We got him from Mack's sister when they moved to Denver from Memphis and only wanted to take one of their two cats with them. He was three or so then, and we'd had him for all but about three months of the almost thirteen years we've been together. He'd lived everywhere that we've lived.

A couple of weeks ago, one morning after we'd left him outside (screened porch with cat door) on a nice night, Mack found him next to the big planter in the back yard. He was on his back, almost motionless until he'd writhe and twist like he was falling and trying to land on his feet. He spent a couple of nights at the vet, where they put him on antibiotics, seemed to get his balance back, and came home. But it was down hill since then. Over the last week, he'd been pretty much curling up in one spot and waiting to die. He lost a lot of muscle mass especially in his back legs, and he could barely make it a few feet before he'd just lay down and wait until he'd either try again or just forget where he was trying to go.

He was a good buddy, and it hurt to seem him in such a pathetic state.

He taught me that you can't bully a cat, and that helped me to think about whether you ought to be bullying anyone or anything.

Goodbye, Mr. Cat. Thanks for spending some time with us.

Labels: cat, goodbye, tom