the Angie’s List Blue House Blog

As I was once told by the proprietor of a pet funeral home, “Animals break your heart just once.” Gwenhyvar Pixie-Bob Trouble Pogue never broke my heart until the day she died. (Her name is like that because we nicknamed her “Pixie-Bob” despite not actually being that breed; Trouble is there because any cat owner will tell you that “trouble” is ALWAYS a cat’s middle name.)

It came rather suddenly a month ago. Gwen was 10 years old – not exactly elderly in kitty terms, but not youthful either. And she was the runt of her litter, which probably didn’t help with her health. She’d been slowing down for a year, getting less active due to arthritis. But she was certainly perky and playful, and arthritis sure didn’t seem to slow her down when she heard the can opener.

So it was a surprise to wake up one morning and find her curled up in a corner, only half awake, very cold and barely moving. We knew in an instant that there wasn’t much time; she wouldn’t even make it to the vet in time to euthanize. We held her wrapped up in her favorite blanket for 20 minutes while she slipped away. Thankfully, it was easy. I could hear her purr and relax as her breathing slowed. I held her the same way I had when she was a three-week-old kitten. I don’t know if even she was aware of what was happening until her breathing stopped completely. She twitched slightly and that was that.

It’s the tenth time in my life I’ve lost a pet, and it never gets any easier. I didn’t want to bury her, but neither did I want to send her off for “disposal,” either. I was a little dazed, but I did what made the most sense: went to the List for a good animal crematory. Amazingly enough, we had one, and close to home at that. The good people of All Pets Go To Heaven Crematory were kind enough to stay open a little later than usual for dropoff, and I picked up Gwen’s ashes the next day.

Katrina, my wife, always wanted a Siamese cat. After this experience, I told her I wanted to wait a few months to heal, but then we could get a Siamese. We researched a bit and found that the kind she wanted would cost a few hundred dollars. I could live with that. Plenty of time to save, right?

Funny thing, life. A week after Gwen’s death, we ran into some neighbors who mentioned they had kittens who needed homes. Against my better judgment, we took a look, and they had not one but two beautiful Siamese cats.

One cat, I told Katrina. ONE cat.

Ha. I don’t know what melted my heart more: the way both Siamese looked up at me with that longing gaze that said “Don’t separate us, pleeeeeeaase,” or the way Katrina gave me the EXACT SAME LOOK.

Okay, two cats, I said. But don’t expect me to like it! (I’m actually a cat person, but I don’t like having lots of cats around. Two is my limit, preferably one.)

One tiny little tiger-striped cat disagreed. He climbed up my shirt with teeny little claws and perched on my shoulder, looking all around like a fuzzy parrot.

Katrina hadn’t paid much attention to him; he was a perfectly ordinary tiger kitty, and her interest had been in the Siamese. But he was quite light and fluffy, and half the size of the other cats, though the same age. Great. Another runt.

I gave him my best grumpy-old-man glare. (Given the week I’d had, it wasn’t hard.) “Seriously, little guy, is there anything, ANYTHING about my current demeanor that begins to give you the hint that I am a nice person? Look at me! Grr! Argh!”

“Mew,” he squeaked in response, and settled down further on my shoulder. He refused to leave the entire hour we were there picking out kittens.

I had been reluctant to get one cat. Needed much coaxing to get two. Definitely not three.

“You KNOW you’re not coming with me, right?” I said as firmly as possible. “I’m like Scrooge to kitties! Insert your own quote here about the surplus population! So enjoy sitting on my shoulder while you can.”

“Mew.” He just sat there as we walked around, and just looked at me. It wasn’t a specifically cute look, nor was it a deep glare, just a bright-eyed look that said “Ball’s in your court, chief.”

Sigh. I SUPPOSE I could live with three kittens …

Katrina named her kitties Daria and Skippyjon Jones (the latter after our baby’s favorite book, about a playful Siamese cat.) Being borderline obsessed with angelic lore, I named the little guy Metatron (after several days of his name just being “Little Guy” or “To Be Announced.” I came THIS close to naming him “TBA.”)

It figures I would pick another runt — or, more accurately, that one would pick me. Little Metatron may not last as long as most cats, but ten years, fifteen, or two, we’ll fill his years with a lifetime of love. I don’t think he’s going to give me a choice.