Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend

The writing had been on the wall for a while, but the inevitability didn't strike me until just a few days ago. And now, the finality is tougher to deal with than I thought it would be.

Andy's gone, hopefully to a better place where he can eat tuna and turkey every day, watch grosbeaks, chickadees and wrens flutter from limb to limb, and even catch the occasional mole or chipmunk. It'd be nice if he could rest on a rug in front of a warm, crackling fire with his eyes closed and paws tucked underneath his forelimbs, the picture of contentment. With luck, he'll have woods to explore and wildflowers to sniff, and a large patch of sand where he can "do his business".

A large black shorthair with bright green eyes and just a patch of white on the front of his neck, Andy and I had first met back in 1993 in West Springfield at the old polymer plant which bordered the rail yard. An odd place for a cat to be hanging around for sure, and it was soon clear he'd been abandoned. He found his way in through one of the doors the night crew would leave open for fresh air. The guys on 3rd shift soon took a liking to him, feeding him pieces of their eggplant grinders, hunks of pizza, a piece of balogna here, some roast beef there. They named him "Regrind", which is the industry term for plastic parts and scraps that have been ground back up for recycling and reuse.



Over the next few weeks he spent the days sleeping around the offices on the hallway carpets, or a vacant chair. He was living high, with everyone bringing him milk, Friskies, Meow Mix, and Star-Kist. Soon he seemed to want to spend most of his time near my desk, maybe because my office lacked a ceiling heat vent and was equipped with a space heater on the floor. He wasn't terribly affectionate at first, and seemed almost mistrustful of outstretched hands and fingers. I was certain he'd been abused at some point.

With Memorial Day weekend approaching, our plant manager Michele said something to me that changed this cat's fate: "You know, we're going to be shut down for 4 days, and the night crew won't be in until 11 pm on Monday, so this guy's either staying in here or out there. Why don't YOU take him home?"

Well, I had plans to visit my dad's family in Maine so it just didn't seem possible. But the more I thought about what might happen to him, the more convinced I became that I might be his only hope.

So that Thursday I put him in a large box with plenty of air holes, and carted him up to the Mount Holyoke Animal Hospital. While I headed north to Maine, they kept him for the weekend giving him a bath (he was filthy), an exam, all his shots, and treatment for ear mites -- not to mention the removal of his manhood. When I picked him up 5 days later and $370 lighter in the wallet, he was a brand new cat. They estimated his age at between 3 and 5 but most likely on the older end. Ironically it was the day after Memorial Day -- 12 years ago -- when he came home with me.

He adapted quickly to indoor apartment life at Maple Crest. I was on the 2nd floor with a large balcony, so I'd leave the screen open enough for him to head in and out at his whim. During the warmer months, I'd accompany him outside on the grounds so he could survey the landscape a bit, but I wasn't comfortable letting him roam free. The litter box was second nature to him, and he loved to sleep under the large potted plants in the living room where the sun warmed the floor, or under the covers of the heated waterbed (yes, I actually had one of those...)

When I needed to travel and didn't have anyone around to check in on him, I'd board him back at Mount Holyoke. Each individual cage had access to its own fenced-in outdoor runner so he could still get his fresh air and explore the grass whenever he wanted, with sunny and shaded areas. Whenever I'd return to pick him up, he'd recognize my voice from the next room and would start meowing incessantly.



The name was an issue, though. I really didn't want a pet with a name that reminded me of my job. I toyed with several alternatives, even asking my 5-year-old niece Arianna for suggestions, but there was no way a 27-year-old guy was going to have a black cat named "Shadow"...

The solution came as I cooked dinner one night. I had the TV turned up loud so I could hear it over the clamor of clanging pots and pans and running tap water. Next thing I knew the Andy Griffith Show was starting, and when the cat heard the whistling of the theme he started meowing. Within seconds he had gone over to the TV and was actually on his hind legs, sniffing the TV speaker. And just like that, it was settled.

Andy it was, and Andy it would be.

I did my best to keep him active with exercise, and I don't know of any other cat that would fetch. While he'd crouch around a corner or behind the plants or furniture, I'd bounce a tennis ball off the floor towards the wall. Andy would then spring out of nowhere like Dr. J. trying to block a shot, knocking the ball down and then chasing it. Often his claws would catch the fibers on the outside of the ball and he'd snag it from mid-air. I was always amazed at how high he could jump, and he'd eagerly do this a couple dozen times before he'd tire out.

He also loved to wrestle and attack my hand and forearm, which would often end up with everal gouges and deep scratches from his teeth and claws, even while wearing long-sleeved shirts. His pupils would darken and grow wide, and he'd keep coming back for more even if I'd had enough. But as soon as I'd scratch him behind the ears, he'd realize the roughhousing was over and the purring would start.

Two years after adopting him I was promoted to corporate in Cheshire, CT, so Andy and I took up residence in the Town Plot neighborhood in Waterbury. He made the hour journey sitting on a blanket in the passenger seat of my Taurus -- no box, no cage, no nothing. During the trips to the vet for boarding I'd learned that unlike most cats, he definitely liked going for rides.

The condo I had there was at ground level with a deck off the back doors facing the woods. Finally, after only being allowed supervised visits outside to sniff the grass at my old place, he could return to being an outdoor cat. The deck was about 3 feet above ground, which allowed him to jump up and down when he pleased. But big as he was, I had to remove one of the wooden slats in the deck railing so he could fit through it.

It wasn't long before he established his dominance among the other felines roaming the complex. One morning my neighbor reported her cat, Smokey, had come home with his tail draging, some cuts and gouges on his face and a few swatches of hair missing from his coat. I knew right away it was Andy's work since he'd come in with tufts of gray fur stuck in his claws, and not a scratch on him.

Another night, I fell asleep watching TV on the couch with the porch door open, and I'd forgotten to close the screen. I awoke to a loud howling and after fumbling to get a light on, I saw that a small tiger angora had made the mistake of encroaching on the wrong turf -- and Andy was about 3 feet from him with every hair standing up on end. Before I could separate them, he lunged, the two of them rolling a couple times on the carpet as fur flew everywhere. The smaller cat broke free momentarily and ran -- in the wrong direction, toward the bedrooms. Andy followed in hot pursuit, but I threw my blanket over him to keep him at bay while I evicted the dazed and unfortunate trespasser. More fur stuck under the claws, different color.



After 3 years in Connecticut I'd decided to move on. A couple of co-workers and I were going to start our own business, and Atlanta was the place we chose. I elected to rent in the suburb of Duluth, and to conserve finances I moved myself in a U-Haul while towing my car on a trailer. Sure enough, there was Andy resting comfortably on the passenger seat, his litter box on the floor in front of him, unfettered by the obnoxious noise in the cab. In the cargo area was my new mattress and box spring, part of the new bedroom set I acquired after his claws had punctured the waterbed mattress. He actualy did me a favor on that one.

With concerns over traffic, I foolishly decided that Andy would become an indoor cat again, with access to the covered 2nd floor porch overlooking the pool. Right below were the shaded garden and fountains. I figured that would be entertainment enough. But right from the start I was traveling frequently, having the girls in the office feed him and scoop his litter, so he wasn't just indoors -- he was alone quite a bit. I paid the price for Andy's solitary confinement when I brought new furniture into the abode -- the back corners of the sofa and recliner were torn to shreds within weeks. Whereas most other cat owners would have dropped him in a lake with a rock tied to his tail, I knew I'd screwed him by (A) moving him away from his comfort zone, (B) Leaving him with nothing to do but listen to the radio, look out the window and sleep, and (C) denying him the chance to explore his new surroundings.



But I still wasn't going to make him an outdoor cat. Nope, I had other ideas. Two years later, when I moved to the north Atlanta neighborhood of Buckhead, I got more new furniture. But this time I had Andy de-clawed, which is something I still regret. Sure, I saved my furniture, but if I had it to do over again it would have been when he was much younger. Frankly, he'd responded much better to his castration. It took him quite a while to adjust to life without claws, and I'm really not sure he ever did.



But Andy got his revenge on me in other ways. Furballs became more frequent, and throwing up became a regular ordeal. But he wouldn't do it on the kitchen with the easily-cleaned tile. Nope, it was always the carpet, and DuPont Stainmaster was simply no match for Andy's regurgitated foodstuffs.

But he wasn't done. Somehow he got a cut on the bridge of his nose which scabbed over. But the next time he cleaned himself he'd knock off the scab. Lather, rinse, repeat. The result was numerous little dots of blood everywhere he went. The vet said there was little they could do because the area was so rich in blood vessels. So I made what some would term a foolish choice - rather than kicking him to the curb, I decided to hold onto my pal Andy, and paid for new carpeting when it was time to move.



It was two years ago that I decided to leave the plastics industry after more than a decade and a half. I was burned out, I missed my family, and I missed New England. My parents were getting along in years and I wanted to be closer to them. Ditto for my 4 nieces, all growing like weeds. So Andy and I were once again sharing the cab in the U-Haul for his longest drive yet -- all the way to Falmouth, MA.

Despite the everpresent threat of coyotes, I decided to say "screw it" and started letting Andy roam around by day. The place borders a salt marsh, and there were plenty of woods and water for him to explore. Right from the start the little guy loved it here -- he could bask on the deck in the sun, retreat to the cool shade of the oaks and poplars, or check out the salt water habitat. And since the marsh is a bird sanctuary, he got to see dozens upon dozens of species here. At first, he was enthralled by all the activity. Pretty soon it became old hat.



He'd spend the nights indoors, and in the evening he'd always want to jump on my lap while I was in my reclining office chair, usually when I was typing away feverishly at something. But I'd rarely turn him away. He'd rest, purring gently, with his front paws and chin on my left shoulder, and I became adept at reaching around his torso to type with my left hand.

He started to slow down with the onset of last winter. I just chalked it up to his weight and age. He'd always hovered around that 20-22 pound mark, but he could still sprint up those stairs at chow time. Still, it had been in the back of my mind since November that he was probably on his last legs. But he hunkered down with me through the blizzards, the north winds and the frigid air that would find their way through the cracks and crevices of this sparsley insulated summer home.



Nothing really changed until early last week. Andy was suddenly only nibbling at his food but was drinking a lot of water and just seemed generally disoriented. He was no longer grooming himself, aside from a half-hearted effort to lick his front paws. I brushed him daily to work out the snarls in his matted fur, especially on his chest and belly. Andy also stopped jumping up on my lap -- he'd merely sit at the side of my chair and meow, weakly, waiting for me to lift him up. With his body next to my ear, I could sense his breathing was much shallower and had slowed quite a bit. Lethargy was taking over, and I knew I'd have to prepare for it.

By Wednesday, he didn't even want to come indoors. I decided to move his litter box outside, placing it on the deck for him to access more easily. It was clear he no longer had the energy to venture to his usual spots for that sort of thing. He never spent another night inside again, preferring to rest outside in the cool salt air.

The first hole I'd dug, down near the marsh inlet on Friday afternoon, turned out not to be such a good idea. Even before the rains came later that evening, the brackish water had seeped in from the front turning it into a mud puddle. So instead it was up the small hill I went, behind the house, between the large overhanging oak and the row of hemlock and pine that serves as a backdrop to the sloping rock garden. I'd figured there'd be too many roots, and there were certainly quite a few, but a spade can cut through most anything when driven down with enough force. His grave was ready yesterday afternoon.

Early this morning I headed to the beach and picked out a large flat rock to be used as a marker, washing the sand and debris off of it with sea water. For the next 2 hours I had to fight off the denial that his end was nearing. People who say "It's only a cat" simply don't understand, nor do I expect them to. My hand was trembling as I picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Olmsted at 8:30. After confirming that I was indeed ready to go through with it, he said I could come in later in the afternoon -- or before 9 when his first appointments were scheduled. There was no way I was going to be able to handle another 8 hours. The time had come.

I headed to the cellar and cut the flaps from a cardboard box that once held my DVD player, and put a litter liner inside it. I'd be using that box for Andy's final ride, on the return trip from the vet, and I placed it in the back seat. When I went outside, Andy had gotten up and was making his way, staggering a bit, to his litter box. He tripped over the edge of it but righted himself and emptied his bladder. When he was done, I grabbed a pet wipe and cleaned his paws, then used another wipe for the rest of his coat.

His kitty bed was already in the passenger seat, with a hefty bag under it to prevent any accident. I headed back up the steps, picked him up, and walked the yard with him one last time. When we got to the marsh, he gave me a look that seemed to say "thanks for everything, pal", and he rubbed his head under my chin. He was purring for the first time in 4 days. The last stop was the flowering bush at the front of the rock garden. I held him close to one of the blossoms, and he gave it a few good sniffs.

The 4-mile ride to the vet was without incident. I had to steady him with my right hand, since he didn't have the strength to balance himself when I rounded a curve or hit the brakes. It was just the 3 of us at the vet's office, and I handed the doc 40 bucks in cash since I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it afterwards. After setting him on the table, I chatted casually with the vet while petting Andy and trying to keep him relaxed in this strange environment. He lacked the energy to do anything frantic, but he was clearly uneasy.

Andy let out his final meow -- louder than I'd expected -- when he was injected with the sedative. It acted within minutes as I stroked him behind the ears. Soon, the only sign of life was his faint breathing. His eyes had glazed over and his tongue was out. The final injection was straight into his heart, and that was that. If the vets back at Mount Holyoke were correct, he was between 16 and 18 when he passed. It was 9:14 AM -- less than 6 hours ago -- when he exhaled for the last time.

The walk back to the car with my buddy in a box was one of the longest I've ever had to take. But after driving back home, the 30 steps I took from the car door to that hole in the ground as I carried him were even longer. I'd been keeping everything in and it all came out as I dropped to my knees, helpless. I pet him a few more times, gave him a little kiss on the head, and then rested him on the bed of leaves I'd put in the hole. More leaves went on top, and I feverishly began shoveling the dirt over him. I simply couldn't let it linger. His spot on this earth is now marked by that large flat rock I culled from the beach some 3 hours before his death.

Over the course of his life with me, Andy the cat traveled a minimum of 3,000 miles by vehicle through at least 12 states. He got to ride in a Taurus, 2 Maximas, a Mercedes, 2 U-Hauls, and a Camry. He met most of my buddies and all of my girlfriends over the past dozen years, and his reaction to them was a pretty reliable barometer of compatability. He was there when I got my first gray hairs, and also when I started losing most of them. Andy had become more affectionate and more trusting towards me over the years, and the bond was mutual. Through all the ups and downs, he always was what a good pet should be -- a comforting presence.

Rest in peace, little guy. I'll be seeing you sooner than you think.