In 1992, near the beginning of my junior year of college, a young woman who a friend was madly in love with but who instead loved me (unrequited) stole a kitten from a local ASPCA and gave it to me. (I had no idea that it was stolen; I thought she had paid the $50 or whatever.) He was tiny and crazy and playful and I fell in love with him instantly. I named him Francis, after my grandfather, but over the years we called him Peekin' (because he would always be peeking around corners) or Fluffernutter (because of his marshmallow and peanut butter coloring) or Big Boy (he was a large beast, tipping the scales at around 23 pounds for a while).
He could be a difficult cat. When Kristen and I moved in together he announced his displeasure by leaving a "present" on the couch (they quickly reconciled and became quite the pair). When he slept at my feet at night, he would bite my toes if I dared to move. He liked to sit on my chest at 4 in the morning to make sure that I knew he was hungry. He would sometimes (often, actually) overeat and vomit, leaving a nice mess to clean up. He enjoyed eating tinsel from the Christmas tree (let me tell you how strange it was cleaning out the litter box every December).
But we loved him. A lot. And when Sonja arrived in our lives 8 years ago, Frank took her in and made her welcome, and they were constant companions and enjoyed each others company as much as any old grumpy cat and a young shy one could. When Sonja died much too young last summer, Frank took it quite hard. (I know, I know; he's a cat. And I'm only guessing. But I'd like to think he missed her as much as we did.) Our two new cats, Cecil and Georgia, never took to him: Georgia would hiss anytime she walked close to him, and as Cecil grew, he staked him claim as the dominant animal in the house and was a little rough with the aging Frank. I'm sure Frank wanted more than anything to have another cat to sleep with and groom, but no such luck.
Frank had been suffering from the common age-related cat ailment of kidney disease (the same thing that Betty had to deal with), and at a recent visit to the vet, the blood test results didn't look good. He had lost a lot of weight, down to under 10 lbs. But he soldiered on.
On Wednesday night, he stopped eating. He had trouble moving his back legs, and he was unable to walk very far. By Thursday, he couldn't walk at all, and Kristen and I both came to the same conclusion.
So we cried at home and hugged him and pet him. And then we took him to the vet's and cried and hugged and pet some more. And as I type this, I'm crying even more, although I can't hug him or pet him any longer.
Betty left us in June. Sonja in August. Now Francis in March. Our friends Katia and Steve have had a similar run of bad luck with cats lately. Maybe it's something in the water in our neighborhood.
But I have to say, he gave us a wonderful 15 1/2 years. I'll miss him very, very much, but I'll never forget him.
On Wednesday morning, we found out that Barnabas is, in fact, worthy of the name Barnabas (and not Barnabetty or somesuch). Kristen had an extremely thorough ultrasound (I think femurs, skull, ulnas, and spine were all measured), and one shot (which I won't be posting) showed a very tell-tale sign that he is a he.
