He had periodontic gum disease but I never would have known it. He would never let me get close enough to see inside his mouth. He would hop away if you tried to pet him, waiting until just the last moment so you think that maybe this time…but no, your hand would land on nothing but air. It was like putting your hand out to shake someone else’s but they don’t return the gesture. You feel like a fool.
He was a fierce protector. He once came flying over the kitchen counter to attack Kerry because he had never seen her before and when she was hugging me, he thought she was hurting me. He bit me instead of her, but it was an understandable mistake.
He acted like a cat with John; rubbing against his legs when he got home in the afternoon, head butting his hand, following him into the bathroom for some private man to cat time. He loved John in a way he didn’t love the rest of us. Yet, John, too, carries the scars of multiple bites from a cat so conflicted he would come to you for petting and then inflict a nasty bite when you did. It wasn’t the playful nip that other cats did, it was a full-on, sink-his-fangs-into-your-flesh bite. And then he would tear away to the sanctity of his closet where he would hide out until the next time he would look at me with those gorgeous green eyes and approach tentatively in a way that said “This time it will be different, this time I won’t run away, I won’t bite, pet me, pet me please.” And we fell for it every time.
I cried not when he was put to sleep. I had to be strong for the vet whom I know hates to put down healthy animals. She said he wasn’t really healthy. She said a cat who urinates on the bed and on all the sofas and lives in the closet is not “settled,” is not a settled cat. He was far from settled, but he had shown love in his own way. Those who knew him won’t mourn him much, he wasn’t a likable cat. He wasn’t a friendly cat. He was a phantom cat. But the two of us who lived with him saw a different side of him deep in the night. He would come and lay on top of us when we were sleeping; a cat desperate for some human contact but too afraid to draw near unless we were incapacitated…asleep. His mistrust of humans is a mystery. I had raised him from a three-day old neonate. I bottle fed him and taught him to use the litterbox. He did use it for a few years. But one ambush in the litterbox by a naughty and playful bigger cat caused him to swear off litterboxes forever. And so for thirteen years I lived with the crackle of plastic on my couches, tearing up the carpet all over the house, putting down towels and plastic on the couches, using a scat mat to keep him away from the furniture. But when he began to use my bed, my side of the bed, up by the pillow, as a litter box, I knew it was time to part ways.
He was heavily sedated the last time I saw him. I could look in his mouth, pet under his chin without risking a bite, and I could tell him good-bye. I left while his heart was still beating, unable to bear the thought of being there for him at the same time commissioning his murder. Penny was kind enough to stay with him. She felt he deserved that. But in the end, she cried for the cat who would never let her near him.
Patrick is gone now but the scent of his piddle is still faint like a whisper in the air. For the first time in 13 years I am sitting on my couch without layers of towels, piddle pads and waterproof mattress covers. I know it was a high price to pay for the privilege to sit on my couch and Patrick paid the price of breaking the rules. He was unsettled, he was itchy and constantly scratching and he had gum disease. He was unhappy and distrustful and paranoid. He didn’t bond with the other cats, he kept to himself. But he was my baby and I am going to miss him. I hope wherever he is, he forgives me this trespass. In time, maybe I will even begin to forgive myself.
