From Pussyfooter To Pussy Lover (In Six Short Years)

After declaring my intention to uphold the bond of marriage, for richer (then) or poorer (now), I implicitly pledged to accept the pair of cats that cohabitated with my fiancée. For better or for worse, I was now the stepfather to Bailey, an obese yet cautious tabby with an imposing fear of vacuum cleaners and a gluttonous coveting of Iams pellets, and Geppetto, a mild mannered ragdoll, content to let his tubby friend box him out of enjoyable meals at the communal kibble bowl.

Hailing from an aerodynamic family, genetics would practically forbid my offspring from sprouting inordinate amounts of chest or back hair; the kind coveted in the cocaine-fueled frenzy of the erroneous disco era, though despised in modern times. Yet, in a bruising twist of irony, the adoption of two bushy felines with a penchant toward gifting their fur on every pillow, cushion, and untended piece of clothing, quashed any aspirations for nearly hairless heirs. Thrust prematurely into fatherhood, albeit an experience devoid of Little League games or ballet classes, I was tasked with keeping my hirsute adoptees well fed, somewhat exercised, and reasonably contented with the cleanliness of their litter box. Whether any of this was, or is, appreciated will never be known to the humans in this cape-style abode. Although often cute or cuddly, cats can also be spiteful ingrates, regardless of the hours logged clumsily shoveling their feces into a bag, before having said bag tear apart horrifically.

Admittedly, however, I’m a cat person at heart, forced to paraphrase Robert DeNiro’s laudatory acclaim of the feline species (from ‘Meet The Parents’) whenever challenged by dog lovers. My ego and self-confidence, while not stratospheric, require neither the constant reassurance nor blind acceptance offered by canines. If anything, the prospect of having some jovial lummox lick my face subsequent to a detailed cleansing of its own anus (or the similar anatomy of a neighborhood stray) is nauseatingly repellent, and certainly not a way to impress one’s best friend. Perhaps it’s my own independent streak which relates to the fickle, almost shifty nature of the cat; that mutual understanding amongst capable and thinking animals whereby attention can be granted in doses, or by a few tosses of the catnip stuffed mouse, before each party happily reverts to its prior activity. Or perhaps it’s because I feel no obligation to reinforce my masculinity through ownership of a large dog. Some men buy Hummers to compensate for their lacking attributes, some collect muscular canines to display like trophies. But whatever your bias, one should never underestimate the abilities of a feline with regards to defecation. And it always boils down to defecation. Namely, the thing can shit by itself. It doesn’t whine for your help. Man’s best acquaintance.

As married life progressed, so did the relationship with my two frisky buddies. Bailey, as the alpha male, was prone to terrorize his friend with headlocks and other amusing wrestling pins, ripping out chunks of Geppetto’s fur while dodging rapid-fire defensive kicks to the head. This amusing game of dominance, akin to the same hilarity one might enjoy from a two-midget tussle, extended no further than harmless badgering. In fact, Bailey was a shivering coward when dealing with humans, making those blustery actions all the more laughable. Both furtive and stubborn, it was impossible to keep that cat under the sheets at bedtime – try as I might each evening – without the fear of God flattening his ears in alarm. It was equally hopeless to remove his 18 pound frame from atop my head every morning. His bed, his terms, his dander on my pillow. But forever the cute ball of fuzz with the lawnmower-like purr, he could be affectionate and trusting, curious yet adorably nervous; inclined to bang his head into furniture, leap rabbit-like down stairs, avoid his chin-strapped fez at all costs, and cuddle for hours, paws stretched softly across your lap.

Shockingly, Bailey was diagnosed with lung cancer last summer after a sudden onset of breathing difficulties. Although his lungs were promptly drained, so was our optimism quickly bled, as this procedure would not offer the hope of recovery. It only served to postpone the inevitable. Prone to further respiratory attacks of greater magnitude and frequency, there existed concern that these would occur while my wife and I were at work, leaving him alone, frightened, and at serious risk.

We didn't use Bailey's carrier on the final veterinary visit. It was a Monday night. Fearful during passage across the street, he clung hard to my shoulder as the rush of traffic meshed with the laughter at a nearby café. Once inside, his nerves calmed, and familiar strokes to chin and head offered a hollow semblance of normalcy. Nonetheless, it was incredibly distressing to consider the innocence of a pet, especially one wholly unaware that these are his last moments, that he is very sick, and that there is no alternative. Perhaps if he'd exhibited more signs of suffering, more pain, more shortness of breath or even introversion, the decision would have been made easier. But then again, it is never easy. He was very calm when he went to sleep, held by those whom he trusted and adored.

Geppetto, as the surviving king of the roost, has since become an invariable chatterbox of meows. Sometimes gratingly bothersome in the vein of an unconducted alleycat symphony, sometimes adorably cute as only the shrewdest of kitties can muster, I’ve grown to realize that his needs extend well beyond a full bowl of food and a tidy litter box. Our relationship has thus matured from one of mutual tolerance with a dollop of suspicion, to one of companionship. He just wants to be loved, and not forgotten.

And to rip the hell out of my dining room carpet.