My wife and I lost one of the great loves of our life last fall when Monk–our amazing, black, bunny-tufted teddy bear cat–died.
Of course, we all feel like we have the best pet in the world. Anyone who lives with an animal knows the fluff-muffins who share our lives have their own likes and dislikes, wants and interests. They’re whiskery individuals who participate in the major events of our lives, and when they go, they leave an awful hole behind…except in our case, we’re talking about Mr. Monk, who actually was certifiably the Best Cat in the World.
Monk and I moved into the Oakland house we call home twelve years ago. As I unpacked and set up homestead, he camped out with me on the couch, padding among cardboard boxes and commenting on my work. When Priya came over for the first time a few months later, she said Mr. Monk made her feel she was where she belonged, jumping into her lap and purring the minute she arrived, before I could offer her a cup of tea.
Monk was an old soul from the day he came home from the SPCA. Many animals won’t meet your eyes, afraid to challenge your dominance, but Monk always knew he was one of us. His yellow eyes connected with ours and his feelings shone through. If he wanted attention, he’d walk up to your face and butt his head against your forehead. If a suitcase came out of the closet, they’d go moony with just the sparest sliver of gold at the bottom of big black pupils.
Monk was a talker. He didn’t just meow to catch your attention; he used his voice tonally to let you know what he thought. When we returned from a trip, he’d trail us, grumbling growly sentences to complain. Ask him a question and he always answered, keeping up the conversation.
Monk was a ladies’ man. Call any vet’s office, and hearing his name, the receptionist gushed over how much she and all the vet techs loved him. We called him Señor Macho Don Gato, because he’d knock over boxes and books with a hip check to impress us with his strength. Then he’d ask to be held and stick his head under your chin, purring like a motorboat.
Monk slept with us. He ate when we ate, and from our plates if there was butter and syrup involved. When I came home from the hospital after a craniotomy, Monk climbed onto a pillow above my head and stayed put throughout my recovery. Priya wrote much of her dissertation with him planted in her lap. When Priya and I set a date to marry, everyone assumed Monk would be our ring bearer.
Monk was diagnosed with congestive heart failure in February 2014. An ultrasound revealed a congenital defect, a hole between two ventricles that would cause one side of his heart to enlarge until it failed. There’s no cure, so we were left with only combinations of medications to help his heart pump and slow the process. Grinding various fractions of pills into his chicken slurry became part of our routine, and we thanked our stars he ate the doctored food so we didn’t have to wrestle Señor Macho Don Gato into swallowing them.
Then September’s heat waves hit, and Monk picked at his food. The delicate balance between three complementary heart meds and his kidneys began to wobble. We found ourselves locked onto that roller coaster pet owners ride as they ask each day: Should we stop? Are we helping him or torturing him? The next few weeks taught me a few lessons about health care and dying.
Get informed and prepare to be an advocate. Many vets helped us keep Monk as healthy as possible, but the system had two biases that we believe failed him last September: It deferred to The Expert, the cardiologist, rather than taking a broader view of his health. And options were subtly dismissed because of his age. When tests showed Monk’s heart and kidneys were stable, we were sent home with reassurances and lost valuable time. We had to learn from the Internet how dangerous it is for a cat to stop eating, and about all our options for stimulating his appetite.
Be present. When Monk first started his meds, Mom asked me if we were doing this for us or for him. At the time, he was active, and the answer was easy, but it was a question I asked throughout his illness. Sometimes it meant we were putting him through too much; sometimes that it would be easier to stop before he was ready. One afternoon, I was sure it was time. Then a dandelion tuft drifted by. Monk leapt up and grabbed it with both paws, and then trotted over to a line of ants to watch. All you can do is pay attention and do your best to pick the right moment.
Make burial arrangements in advance. On Wednesday, September 23, Monk’s kidneys finally shut down. The game was up. We called the vet to our back deck, his favorite place. As he watched me from Priya’s arms, I signed paperwork authorizing that his heart be stopped and giving us shopping options for urns and paw impressions. It’s one of my regrets that I had to do that then, rather than just holding him.
A month later, we made trips to the East Bay SPCA in Oakland. We didn’t think we were ready to adopt anybody, but it was distracting to see roomfuls of whiskered folk. After three visits, we brought home two black kittens–a 6-month-old gangly tuxedo with white knee socks we named Charlie Parker, and an 8-week-old black handful with a motorboat purr and Batman-tall ears, named Jelly Roll Morton. The hole that Monk left is un-fillable, but these two guys make us laugh, and every day, we love the new relationships we’re building.
Trumpet player Heidi Beeler has been a member of the San Francisco Lesbian/Gay Freedom Band since 1991. She is also a founding member of the Dixieland Dykes +3. For more information, please visit www.sflgfb.org or www.facebook.com/sflgfb
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