My buddy Leo died a couple of weeks ago. He was 15.
As anyone knows who's lost a pet, those first few days afterward can be pretty tough. When you get home, no one is there staring back at you from the front window, waiting to say, "Hi, it's great to see you. You've been gone a really, really long time. Where the hell is my food? I'm soooo hungry! But it's so good to see you. But where's my GD food? I'm literally starving. Stop tripping over me and get me some food, Tim!"
This is Leo shortly before he passed away. Poor dude started looking a little like a kitten again. He'd developed a tumor inside his right sinus cavity and it steadily grew to the point where, although his energy and appetite were normal, he'd rest with his head down to take the pressure off the lump in his face. Here is is on the fridge, his favorite perch during those final days.
Periodically, he opted for a human skull to replicate the effect:
Leo joined our home when he was three. He and his sister had previously lived with another family who decided to return the two of them to the adoption agency, as the siblings had some congenital health issues. Leo's sister (let's call her Leah) was born without a tail and had difficulty controlling her bladder and bowels. Leo (aka Lee, Leroy, and the Toothless Bastard Cat), had only three or four teeth and a stubby, crooked tail that resembled a furry, leopard-print rabbit’s foot.
Could he be a douche bag? Oh, hell, yeah. He peed on a surge protector behind the TV, causing it to emit a toxic, gag-inducing cat smog throughout the house. It was apparently to protest the extended vacation from which we'd just returned.
On more than one occasion, he pooped in my wife's shoes in an effort to display his displeasure at his exclusion from social events. And if you turned your back for a split second, you'd find the little urchin raking his sandpapery tongue over a freshly baked loaf of banana bread, a black bean soup ladle or a tuna casserole left uncovered.
Leo's bodily fluids reached far and wide, especially for such a petite mammal. Due to his toothless condition, he was a big drooler, often depositing ropey trails of slobber onto his preferred sleeping spots. And combined with his hoggish dining habits, Lee's dental condition elicited voluminous, barely-digested chow regurgitations on nearly every conceivable household surface.
But any annoying behavior, any amount of cleaning up after him or tripping over him or running into him, was profoundly overshadowed by his loving, yet quirky personality.
He liked to sleep in strange, often precarious positions:
He enjoyed watching me watch Husky games on TV:
And he'd frequently belly up to the bar while I prepared dinner, as if patiently waiting for me to mix him a Manhattan.
In the event that someone in the family was upset, our sweet guy would hop up on their lap and tuck his head under their chin as if to soak up the negative emotion. He'd often lie on me with his fuzzy cat arm draped across my chest like we were going steady.
Leo lived a fairly pampered life, especially during his final days. His palliative care often included supervised visits to the backyard:
Sometimes, I still think I can hear his claws clicking on the hardwood floor in the next room or sense him looking at me from the dark hallway. I can still feel his damp nose lightly touching mine as if to say, "I'm here to hang out with you."
It was Leo's time to go, but I miss him so much. We all do.
