Butch

I'd been expecting it for at least the past three years. Then one day last week, I walked into my living room and the site I had been dreading was there.

Butch, my cat, had tried to jump onto the couch but missed. He was hanging from his front claws, his head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth agape. He wasn't moving. I assumed the worst, that he was dead. That wasn't the worst.

When I unhooked him, he woke up. But his front legs weren't working. I hoped that they were just stiff from being stuck for God-knows-how long. That wasn't the case. Since it was a hot day, I took him into the bathroom and laid him next to the toilet. That was his favorite place to stay cool. I brought him some water and then I left for work. When I came home, he'd managed to crawl to the middle of the floor, probably because he'd dumped the water dish. I brought him to the living room and turned on the fan. Moving anything below his neck seemed to be a tremendous effort, but above the neck he was fine. He just couldn't seem to figure out why nothing worked. He meowed and looked around. I gave him water and I went out. When I came back, he was asleep. I laid next to him for about an hour, petting him. When I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer I went to bed, expecting him to be gone the next morning. He wasn't. I lay with him for a while longer and went to work.

At work, I made the call. As they had with his mother, the vet told me they'd have a room ready and that I wouldn't have to wait. They were true to their word. I was this big, hulking man carrying this fragile cat through their waiting room, sobbing while people stared at me as if I'd landed from Mars. I sobbed as they tried to sell me an urn for his ashes. I sobbed when they told me that twenty-one years is a long time for a cat. I heaved sobs as they took him away from me and into the next room for the procedure. Butch, always a vocal cat, was mewing in the next room like a weak kitten. I was incoherent. The vet walked me to a side exit, gave me a minute to catch my breath, and then let me go out into the street.

Butch was twenty one years old, and my cat all of that time. He was maddening in his vocal demands. He never shut up. He hogged the couch when I was lying on it watching television. He was always demanding food, but eating almost nothing I'd give him. He always thought he wanted mine. He was a mass of matted fur and over-grown claws. He smelled.

There were one or two times that it felt like Butch was my only friend. As they had taken him from my arms, he was purring.

And now he's gone. He was just a cat, but I can't believe how much I miss him.