Abbey's Road: Family's cat's illness a reminder to live life to the fullest every day
I mean, I guess he’s just a cat.
Just a collection of fur and bones and flesh that we picked up from the shelter one afternoon in May.
Rural folk would probably call him dispensable (someday I’ll tell you about my friend who lived near a busy road and used to name her cats things like “Squishy”); theologians would probably argue that Scripture doesn’t address his place within the Pearly Gates.
But he’s not just a cat; he’s our cat.
When Watson (nee “Smudge”) came to us, he was curious and a little crazy and had a thing with attacking our feet at night as we slept for no reason in particular. He ate loaves of bread that we forgot to put away and rooted through the trash can and had this habit of tearing around the house like a madman at unexpected intervals in a fit that the girls called “Destructor Mode.”
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He liked to lay on the girls’ bellies and lick their ears, and they gladly obliged.
All these quirks that we got to know after just a few months; he’s our cat.
And that means he’s part of our family.
And families do hard things together. Right?
Several weeks ago, something started happening with Watson that we couldn’t understand. He began declining and it took several trips to the veterinarian to pinpoint what the problem was; essentially, there was nothing we could have done and not much we can do. So now we wait and watch.
Before last week we'd never been on the part of the parenting journey where you prepare your kid for (or explain to them) the death of a pet. And — as happens so often in life — this doesn't line up with our tidy little plan of succession, where the older one departs and the younger is conveniently already in place to soften the blow. But here we sit with a very sick kitty whose days are numbered, and there's nothing we can do. We have done and spent all the things we are capable of doing and spending; our veterinarian has given us something to buy us, perhaps, a little more time; and now we get to love on this little guy until he’s too tired to fight anymore.
We didn't know when we brought Watson home in May that we'd only get less than a year with him. But I firmly believe that God did — that He saw, and He sees, and He cares. And for whatever reason, He picked our family to love on this little creature until his days, however short, come to a close.
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What a blessing to be able to share a space with such a sassy, spunky, lovable, sweet little guy. (Sherlock the Curmudgeon, a senior cat, will always disagree.) We don't know how much time he has left, but we can certainly love him with everything we’ve got for whatever time he has left.
Isn’t this how we should live life anyway?
The night we told the girls what what happening with Watson, Mr. Roy peeked into The Architect’s room.
Earlier that evening, Watson had curled up on a blanket at her feet, and before I tucked her in, she expressed concern that she might kick him in her sleep.
“I’m sure it’ll be OK,” I reassured her.
When Mr. Roy looked in several hours later, he beckoned me to come to the door.
There, on the bed, was Watson, blinking at the light of our phones in the darkness.
And next to the bed, on the floor with her pillow and blanket, was The Architect, who was so concerned about accidentally kicking her sleeping, sick cat that she chose to sleep on the floor instead.
He might be just a cat, but he’s our cat — our Watson.
And until his final day, as a family, we’ll love him as best we can.
Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.
This article originally appeared on Newark Advocate: When a beloved pet's health declines, a family loves as best they can
