Cat Tales 45
You got a what?” my dad said in disbelief. “I never met a cat that was worth a darn. Your Aunt Eileen used to bring cats home whe n we were kids. They were eithe r climbing my mothe r’s lace curtains or streaking through the house like wildfire, hissing and scratching when someone tried to touch them. “I wouldn’ t have a cat in the house for anything,” he continue d. “I thought I’d taught you that dogs are the best pets. Dogs are always happy to see you, especially if you’ve had a really bad day; always ready to go fishing or hunting, take a walk, or just sleep at your feet. Shoulda got a dog, you’ll see."
"You’re probably right”, I grinned through the telephone, “but you know that Al and I both travel a few days a week, and it wouldn’t be fair to leave a dog in a kennel half the time. Cats use the litter box and don’t need to be let out at night. They eat the food you leave only when they’ re hungry, and they can easily be left alone for a few days,” I felt obligated to explain. “And Dad, he’s a purebre d Himalayan.
His long, fluffy white hair is tinged with orange at the ears and on his tail. He’s very tiny and at only a hundred dollars, he’s a bargain!"
"Only a hundred dollars! You actually paid mone y for a cat? Where did I go wrong?” I could see his eyes roll. “You will learn to love him, I promise. We’re going to bring him ove r to meet you."
"Don’t hurry,” he said only half-jokingly. I needn’t have worried. Prinz was adorable and intent on winning the affection of anyone who came into sight. I’m sure he sensed Dad’s hesitation and imme diately rallied to the challenge. It was all over within an hour. He circled Dad’s recliner, sniffing his shoes in passing, and then went to sit across the room and watc h him for a bit. Anothe r round of the recliner, more sniffing, a few moments of eyeing Dad’s lap, and Prinz was ready for the kill.
He turne d on his tiny body’s loud purr machine, stared direc tly into Dad’s eyes, jumped onto his lap, and settled in for a short nap. Within minutes, Dad was gently stroking the cat and murmuring to hi m softly. But I distinctly heard him say, “Prinz, you’re the best kitten I’ve ever met.”
At that, Prinz woke, stretched his body out to its full eight-inch length, and climbed up Dad’s chest to nuzzle his face. “Shoulda got a dog,” I said with a smile. “Nah, this cat likes me,” he said sheepishly.
It didn’t take long for the m to become buddies. Soon Dad was making special toys for Prinz and bringing him treats. One day he showed up casually dragging a cluster of duck feathers from the tip of an old ice-fishing pole. Prinz feigned disinterest until Dad proppe d the pole against the stone fireplace wall with the feathers suspended just barely out of reach. He couldn’t resist the urg e to jump and leap and attack.
Prinz even ta ught Dad to play hide and seek! They’d chase each other around the house, then stop, hide around a corne r, and try to scare each other. I swear Prinz would leap up in the air with all four paws stretched wide, his mouth fully open, and spit an abbreviated mewrt that mi micked Dad’s “boo!”
It was good to hear Dad laugh. It had been several years since his prostate cancer diagnosis and treatment, and the disease had recently returne d with a vengeance. Metastasized to bone, cancer takes its toll slowly and is incredibly painful. For the next few years Dad would live on heavy medication, sleep fitfully, and spend most of his time in the old recliner, while Prinz gre w into a young adult, watched the changes, sensed the need to slow down, and re mained a solid friend and willing lap companion for hours at a time.
During Dad’s last few years, as our out-of-town de mands increased, Al and I would often leave Prinz with “Grandpa and Grandma” for several days at a time. Dad f ound comfort in that small warm body wi th its loud, vibrating purr snuggling close at his side. We tried to talk him into a kitten of his own, but he refused, re minding us that Prinz was the only good cat he’d ever me t.
A few weeks before Dad died, hospice delivered a hospital bed to the house, hoping the adjustable positions would ease the pain and relieve developing bedsores. Other equipment also arrived, a porta ble toilet chair to keep next to the bed, oxygen, and a walker, so he could walk to the kitchen or den when he felt up to it. The hospice nurses came twice a day. Al and I packed our bags along with the cat’s food and litter box, suspended work obligations, and moved in with Mom and Dad to be close at hand and help with the necessary twenty-four-hour-a-day caretaking.
They say cats know when someone is dying. When Dad asked for Prinz one afternoon, we realized that we hadn’ t seen him yet that day. We searched the house, frantically looking unde r the be ds and the furniture, inside the closets, and shining flashlights behind the furnace and all of the stuff stored in the basement. Prinz had always been an inside cat, never wanting to go outdoors, but we were sure he’d slipped out the previous afternoon whe n the oxygen tank ha d been delivered. We searched the neighborhood and, at Dad’s insistence, tacked signs on telephone poles and put an ad in the local newspaper.
After a few days we gave up hoping for his return and began hopi ng that he had been found by someone who would give him a good, loving home. For the rest of us, losing the cat was painful, but it was secondary to the pain of knowing we we re going to lose Dad soon. For Dad, losing the cat was a constant worry. That whole last week the entire family gathered and focused on helping Dad let go, talking about our ol dest best me mories, thanking him for countless little things he had done or said that had enriched our lives, and just holding his hand and telling him we loved him. As his mind and body weakened, he of ten slipped away from reality for brief periods of time. Then he would sudde nly wake with a quietly commanding and yet serene composure to foc us on us, to make sure we were at peace with his leaving and with each other. And several times a day, he’d ask if Prinz had come back yet.
By then, Dad couldn’t sleep for more than twenty mi nutes at a time, and the rest of us took turns staying awake and accompanying him on his nightly time travels into dream, imagination, and me mory. I can still feel his arm around my waist, on my first night shif t, as we sat on the edge of his bed with the blanket wrappe d around our shoul ders and “felt” our feet wa rm to the glowing campfire he saw on the floor in front of us. We looked up from that cozy fire to feel the cool breeze across our fire -warmed faces as we counted the stars in the black night sky. We listened to the ani mals rustling in the woods and looked for eyes reflecting the light of the lantern hanging in the tree near the te nt. The air smelled of smoke, lake, wet sand, and pine trees. It was a grea t night. I was once again his little girl, and he was my protec tor, my daddy. On my nex t night shift, I “walked” with him though a sunny meadow. His description of our suntanne d faces almost hidden under our old straw fishing hats may have been drawn from me mory or from a vision into his new reality. It didn’t matte r to me. He told me how happy he was that I had walked with him to the edge of heaven, and he asked me to bend low and smell the sweetness of the beautiful flowers, like the sweet peas that grew thick and wild on the fence row along the path to the garden on his grandparents’ farm. His voice grew quiet and serious. His eyes sharpened, and he cocked his head as if listening. “There are no airplanes here! Listen to the sound of the air,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Only birds and butte rflies fly here.” I knew his mind had brought hi m back home when he added, “I have to re member to fill the bird feeders.”
Then, just a few days before Dad took his last breath, we heard Mom’s scream coming from the basement stairs. Prinz, as terrified as Mom, was sitting wide -eyed and tre mbling at the bottom of the steps. For an entire wee k he hadn’t eaten, drunk any water, or used the litter box. He was thin and very tire d. We sensed that he knew what time it was. He had hidden for a week, evidently to avoid what he just didn’t want to deal with. But now, as if sensing the need, he had to come back to say good-bye.
I carried him up the stairs and put him in Dad’s lap. Dad’s eyes misted as he picked up the cat and held him to his face. “Prinz, you came back! I was so worried. I wanted to tell you tha t you are the best animal in the whole world. I missed you.”
The rest of the day Prinz ra rely left Dad’s side, except to eat and spend a few minutes watching the birds from the kitche n window.
The next morning Dad woke from a short nap looking a little confused, struggled to focus, and then smiled. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly. “Listen. I have something important to say. I’ve been to the rive r. It is beautiful. I’ve seen my mother standing on the other side, reaching out and waiting for me. Others were coming to gather be hind her,” he said, checking off names on his fingers: Grandma, Grandpa, uncles, aunts, friends, and a niece who had died as a child. He smiled again and said, “We all have to cross that river someday. I’m ready to go. It’s going to be all right.” He asked that we be sure to fill his bird feeders.
My brother poured seed up to the tops, and we watched the birds gather all day.
Cardinals, sparrows, chickadees, and gold finches all flitted about together and chirped noisily, while Prinz sat on the stool and watched them through the kitchen window.
Dad died that afternoon, holding Mom’s hand, his last breath leaving peacefully and with the love of the entire family surrounding him in his bed, our hands touching his face, his hair, his feet. After saying our final good-byes, we walked togethe r back to the kitchen, looke d out, and saw that the birds were gone. Prinz sat at the window with his eyes focused skyward. We like to think that the birds, too, felt his last breath rising and were providing escort services to heaven and that Prinz was remembering his friend, the man he had taught to love a cat.