Solo

 We put one of our cats down today. Solo--named not after Star Wars but because originally we thought we'd be getting him and his brother. When his bro was given away before him, we got a solo kitty instead of a duo. He'd been having gastrointestinal trouble for the last year or so--throwing up a ton, lots of poop problems. Gradually he went down from his former 14 pounds to 10, then 9, then this week 7. Despite tons of vet visits and medication regimens--is it IBS or lymphoma?--over the last week or so he just stopped eating. 

Even at the end, Solo so enjoyed his "water treat": we trickle water from a cup into a bowl for him. He's always gone gaga for that, pawing (and clawing) at the cup, taking a turn around the mini waterfall, examining the back of the cup, sticking his little nose underneath the stream, sneezing violently after water would go up his snoot, and even sticking his head into the cup to drink directly from the cup as water trickled out of it. Just the words "water treat" would summon Solo like magic.

That remained up even this morning. When I got up, Solo came in, thin and bony and bleary-eyed, and sat next to his bowl and cup. I gave him water treat. He stuck his nose in the stream. But he couldn't bring himself to drink. He hadn't eaten anything for days, not even the nibbles or licks at kibble or canned food. 

We had stopped the nightly ordeal of stuffing meds down his throat a few days prior. 

After I got home from school, we took him to the vet down the street, the same vet that had taken care of Solo when he was a kitten with what they feared was kitty pneumonia. 

As we pet him, the vet gave the first of two shots--this one to relax him into near unconsciousness and painlessness. His eyes stayed open, and I tried to close them so they wouldn't cause any discomfort (though he was by that point beyond discomfort). They then brought in the heart-stopping injection. They had to struggle a bit to fit it into his thinned vein. But they did, and he was gone.

Solo is only the second cat that I've raised from a tiny kitten, and the only one so far I've seen all the way through from kitten to passing. (Our other cat, Hidey, we got from a shelter when she was just emerging from smallest kittenhood.) Our next cat is likely to be my partner's attempt to domesticate the stray he's been courting for over a year now. I'm not convinced NC ("Neighborhood Cat") wants to be indoor, nor am I convinced Hidey would want her. But he'll try anyway, and we'll see.

I cried earlier this week, holding Solo, anticipating this day. I shed tears all day and sobbed on the way home. I'm going to bump up against a kitty-shaped absence in my life for some time to come. All the little places he'd be: hopping up to take one of my hands as I work on the computer, waiting outside of the shower to investigate the drips and puddles (a scientist of water was Solo), chewing on anything crinkly and often carrying it to his water bowl like an offering to some sea god, and mostly snuggling up to me. At his healthiest, he was so big, and he insisted on taking up my torso. 

Cats are infamously aloof. You can't count on a cat to show affection to you. But Solo outdid any dog in loving on us. He adored us. We adored him, even in his destructive kitten phase. (We would often joke about having visits from some mysterious cult's monks, who in their gentle way would inform us that our cute little kitten was in fact Destruction incarnate. "Behind his innocent face, he dreams of the world broken and burning." "But he's such a cute boy!" we'd respond. "Yes," they would sigh, shaking their heads, "That's how he gets you.")

We withdrew somewhat as his health declined. I suspect some touches of kitty dementia. But he was still happy to sit with us, kneading a blanket and sucking on it, never having grown out of his nursing phase. He loved our hands resting on him or his head and paws resting on our hands. 

He was an exceptional cat. I told him often how much I loved him, what a good guy, a good Solo, he was. I thanked him often for being with us, and I thanked God for bringing us together. 

May God take his soul to a paradise of water treats, crinkly plastic, and beloved hands and warm torsos to snuggle with.