Tag Archives: Newcastle

The Oscar for Best Kitty

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As anti-Woke comedian Jerry Seinfeld would say, “What is the deal with Oscar?” Since I think a few people might be interested, I decided to fill you in.

I used to have a cat named Magik. When Magik was a kitten, there was a mishap, and he didn’t get fed for two days. Magik, as a result, was food insecure. He ate each meal like he was preparing for a famine. Since Oscar was starving when Nicole rescued him, I was concerned that he was going to overeat and be a roly-poly like Magik was.

Luckily, he has different ideas. He used to try to steal the food out of my hand, no matter the cuisine. Now he has no interest in human food, except for meat sticks, and even then, he spits out the teriyaki. Original flavor only. That, the wet food, and a little bit of dry food are the only things he eats now, which is a huge relief. If he started getting chubby, I was going to have to start saying no.

Oscar has grown. Again, when Nicole found him, he was starving. The vet couldn’t give me an estimate of his age because of the damage. But he’s all repaired, and now he’s starting to become a cat. I mean, I knew he was a cat this whole time, but he had the build of a ferret and an unnaturally long tale. Now he’s starting to fill out, and his coat’s growing in.  

His favorite perch is my shoulders. Despite having claw marks (through clothes) all over my back and arms from him making himself comfortable, I really love having him there. Of course, that means I have to stand until he gets bored. Also, he’ll hop up on the bathroom counter while I’m getting ready for a shower, and his eyes will start to focus on my deltoid muscle, and I have to intervene before I pass out from the blood loss. He bit my shoulder as he settled in, but he suddenly stopped, as cats are wont to do.

I still haven’t told management I have a cat.

Even though there’s a heat wave (otherwise known as An Average Summer in DC) right now, I’ve been opening the window so he can experience the outdoors. I’m pretty concerned that he’s going to get bored. I have a very small studio, and he’s already explored every corner. He becomes a fuzz-saw when I put him into his harness, and when it’s on, his legs don’t work. So no walks.

He is constantly begging me to play, and I try to keep up with him, but that kid’s got a lot of energy. I have to tell him, Dad is very old, and his elbow has been giving him problems. His favorite toy is the long, skinny ribbon someone left in the hallway (Exhibit A). As you can see from Exhibit B, it’s the most stylish toy any cat has.

I still miss Newcastle. I’ll remember how happy he was exploring the backyard, and it doesn’t make me sad, for the most part. Sometimes a memory will drag me to tears, though. It’s not because Oscar isn’t a good cat. Oscar is a great, well-behaved cat. But he can’t replace Newcastle.

I love having the little guy around. He’s a great lap cat, and he’s always so excited to see me when I get home. He’s a talker, but at his high pitch, it sounds more like singing. He tends to stick close to me, even if he’s mad about something. His favorite place to play is on my bed, so he’s starting to shred my comforter. He hasn’t settled into routines, so he’s unpredictable, and that is exciting.

I could go on for pages, just rest assured that Oscar is getting spoiled, and so is his dad.

Oscar Update

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I’ve had Oscar for three weeks, and for a third of that, I called him Potato. He is permanent part of my household now, and I keep “forgetting” to tell management so they can charge me pet rent. He’s always excited to see me when I get home, which means a lot.

He’s put on some weight, and his coat is starting to fluff up. He’s going to look exactly like Newcastle in a year, which is great because I won’t have to change my phone’s wallpaper. It’s really bothering me, though. I don’t want another Newcastle. Last week, I was spacing out with Oscar in my arms, and when I came back, I thought he was Newcastle for a minute. I wasn’t upset, though. I wasn’t disappointed to see Oscar in my arms, and I got to spend another minute with Newcastle. But I still don’t feel like I’ve had enough time to grieve.

Oscar felt like my cat when his collar was delivered, and I put it on while he fought and squirmed. It’s orange because that’s my favorite color, and he likes to direct traffic. I took out Newcastle’s automatic feeder when I had to return to the office because my non-profit’s loose work-at-home policy made it possible to have paternity leave without having to use up sick leave, and I had a whole week at home with him.

He trusted me right away, which is an honor, especially from a former stray. With the exception of meals and when he sleeps in my laundry basket, he needs to be around me at all times. This is great because he’s soft and warm, like a predatory tribble, but it’s hard to do art at home. I can work or look at my proofs by stretching and twisting, but sketchpad is out.

Today, he discovered paleo meat sticks. He’s really pushy when it comes to my food, especially cinnamon rolls, but this cat would have straight-up murdered me if I didn’t give him a piece fast enough. Because I could not give him a piece fast enough, he bit my thumb, and he’s got alligator jaws. Teriyaki flavored is his favorite.

Skin-on-skin touch releases hormones that your brain needs to function properly. Sucks for me because I’m touch-averse (though I won’t say no to a hug every now and again). The good news is that petting your pet counts as skin-on-skin touch. I needed Oscar. I still miss the last guy so much it hurts, but I’ve fallen in love with this hairy little goofball, and I’m really grateful to have him draped over my legs like a heavy scarf as I type this.

Also, he’s a jumper, unlike Newcastle. I think I’m in trouble.

Cats and Dolls

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Meet Fauxcastle:

I got some cash for Christmas, and I ordered a custom stuffed animal of Newcastle. I knew he didn’t have long (but to be fair, I was kind of hoping to get a little longer), and I wanted to have something to remember him by. I sent them eight pictures, and two months later, it arrived. I put it in my closet as soon as I unboxed it because I still had the real one. After Newcastle died, I left it there because whenever I had to get something from the shelf it occupied, I could see its tail, which was one of Newcastle’s defining features, and I’d be hit with grief.

It’s a shockingly good likeness, though they didn’t get his fur color right. (You can’t tell from the pictures, but Newcastle’s fur wasn’t black, but rather the color of black coffee.) It’s a little bigger than the real thing, but somehow the people at Cuddle Clones nailed that signature Newcastle expression (“Huh?”), which you can see as it puzzles over the queen mother. It’s got a pouch for his ashes, but I think I’m going to leave those on the shrine. This isn’t Newcastle.

Today is a month without my best friend, and I’m still in pain. I broke down in tears at my desk Thursday (don’t worry, that’s the first time I’ve ever done that), and I see and hear him through the apartment. I still have to remind myself when I come home that he’s not there, and I get nervous about holding the door open so he doesn’t get out.

But when I was trying to find my 2022 tax return, I saw that fake tail and decided to give it a try and see if I could handle it. And I can. It’s right next to my desk, on top of a podium, which is on top of a chest of drawers, and there’s no way I can’t see it. I was worried that I would confuse it with Newcastle out of the corner of my eye, like I did with a pillow this morning, but nope.

Some of you might think this is morbid or creepy or obsessive, but I’m finding it comforting. I will not be petting it or feeding it or anything unhinged—it’s just there, filling up an empty space.

If it does move, though, I will kill it with fire.

Shrine of the Times

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When the vet left my apartment, taking Newcastle with her, she left behind three things: his collar, his paw print, and a lock of his fur. Nicole was with me through the whole ordeal, and when she left, I looked at the three items on my kitchen counter and kept myself from sobbing uncontrollably by putting them on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet I only used to store his canned food. They have been there since. I knew I’d get to them eventually.

About a week later, I cleared out his food and water bowls and hid them in the cabinet on top of the refrigerator. Nicole didn’t take the canned food because I might decide to get another one someday, so I went into the cabinet to get it, and I saw a small piece of his collar poking out of the top shelf, and I realized I wasn’t ready.

A week later, the box I’d bought to display his hair was delivered, but I still wasn’t ready.

Last Saturday, I picked up his remains from the vet, and I’ve been experimenting in places to put him. Here’s a corner that is currently full of capsized Doctor Who action figures (that he knocked over), but that’s in a corner, tucked away from everything. Things tend to fall off of my desk, so that’s out. My dresser is covered in weird tchotchkes I haven’t sorted out. There’s a small metal shelf by the door, which would make a great location, but I use it to store art supplies when I work on my comic. I finally found the right spot.

Yesterday, I decided I would take his stuff out today. And I did. It was hard—it was really hard, but the spot I picked is perfect. It’s almost as high as the dresser, so it overlooks the whole apartment (which should tell you how big my apartment is). It’s a small chest of drawers that displays my owl collection (Newcastle always reminded me of an owl), and it’s close to my bed. No, I’m not going to cuddle with the box of ashes, but I will see it every time I turn off my lamp.

Here it is, my shrine to my best buddy.

Here’s Newcastle himself, in his coffin.

His paw print, which is nice to have, but it doesn’t make me emotional.

Here’s his fur. He was so matted in the end, but I couldn’t bear to shave him because I didn’t want him to die bald. The vet took this out of his tail, which was still fluffy.

Finally, his collar. This is the part I have a hard time looking at. It was mostly covered by his luxurious mane, but that lumberjack plaid was his signature look, and he’s had the tag forever.

He was such a big part of my life that I want him in a prominent place in my home. Typing this in bed, all I have to do is turn my head a little, and I can see some souvenirs from my friend. It hurts, and I’m okay with that.

We traveled to other countries together. He was with me through an entire marriage. He held on long enough for me to get used to living alone for the first time in my life. He was my friend.

I miss him so much.

One Day at a Time

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Yesterday, I picked up Newcastle’s remains. I could have had them shipped to me, but I thought it was better to pick them up at his vet’s, so I could see the office one last time. I paid a fortune for his death, and I can see where the money went, from this hand-carved, sealed box to the kind, professional vet who came to my apartment seventeen days ago and took him away.

I don’t know where to put him. The other mementos they gave me when he passed, including his collar, paw print, and the lock of his hair are in a cabinet because I can’t bear to look at them. It’s like if I see them, I’ll have to accept that he’s gone.

There’s good days and bad. More often than not, I forget he won’t be there when I get home from my duties in the outside world. It’s the days when I remember that hurt the most. I’m not ready to accept his absence. Last weekend, we had a single spring day amongst the ongoing cold drizzle we’ve been enduring in the DMV area, and I thought about how I’d love to open a window, but I couldn’t because it was still too cold for him, even in his Wookie-fur coat. The same thing happened to me when I

decided to treat myself to a pizza last week because I was going to have to share my sausage with him. I didn’t enjoy the pizza. Too much sausage.

I’ve spoken to a grief counselor twice since he died, the second time when I had forgotten how his fur felt. I may have to call her again. Everyone has been so good to me, though. The girls in my eight-cubicle “pod” at work got me a card, and my boss got me a beautiful window ornament I have displayed at my desk. I have some friends I still talk to when I really miss him, but I feel like the rest of the world has moved on, even if that’s not true.

The worst day was last Wednesday, when I was so overcome with grief, I had to leave work. On the train ride home, I was struck by the image of Neil Gaiman’s perky, goth personification of Death picking the little guy up, scratching him behind the ears and whispering sweet things to him as she carried him where he needed to go. I burst out into tears. I still cry, even writing that sentence. I fell asleep at 3:30 in the afternoon and woke up twelve hours later. That was the worst day I’ve had since the actual day.

My neighborhood consists of a Walmart, some liquor stores, and a lot of fast food, so I went one stop past mine and discovered a beautiful area with a vegan donut shop, a vegan cupcake shop, and a vegan soul food restaurant. Most importantly, there is a café, called The Lost Sock for some reason, and on the rare moments when it hasn’t been raining, I’ve sat outside and drawn or painted. Now that I’m not eking out my last moments with my best friend, I have room to wander, and it’s calling out to me.

Last night, past my bedtime, I went to Artomatic, in which hundreds of local artists set up mini-galleries in a large, empty building. There’s seven floors of art, music, bars, and sandwiches from the historic Busboys & Poets. I made it through two. Also since he left, I’ve unpacked my books, the last remnants of the move, and hung up most of my wall art. It only took two months.

I’ve been drawing and painting a lot since he left. I’ve only managed one page of my comic before it became a burden, but I’ve been focusing my attention on my sketchbooks. I loved drawing and painting him. I have over a dozen works with him as a subject, from bad to good, from 2004 to 2024.

Last week, I rediscovered the hilarious “Gangham Style” video, and I recreated my favorite five seconds in any music video as a self-portrait, with him playing the part of Psy. Drawing him didn’t break my heart, so I think I’m going to see what happens if I do it again.

It’s still hard to talk about him without tearing up. The other day, I barely held it together as I told my sister Rachel about the night I was afflicted with sleep paralysis, and he stayed at my side the whole time, protecting me from the evil dark figure looming at the foot of my bed. He was a good boy. The goodest.

I miss him so much.

Quantum States

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As you know, since it’s become an oft-misunderstood meme, Schrodinger’s cat existed in a quantum state of dead and alive, so long as you didn’t open the box where it was kept. (Insert joke about cats and boxes.) Since Monday, when Newcastle was tentatively given a thumbs up until we heard back on the blood tests, he was in that box. Finally, the box has been opened.

I was told I had to wait twenty-four to forty-eight hours to receive the verdict on Newcastle’s blood tests, and it took seventy-four. The vet told me that Newcastle is on the verge of kidney failure. She said that we can treat it (for now) by hospitalizing him at the boutique vet where I get his heart checked twice a year. It would buy him a number of months.

I learned then where I draw the line. I think some people believe I spend too much on my cat. I give him three pills twice a day, at a negligible cost (the last bottle I bought will last me two months, and it cost $4.00). For hyperthyroidism, I buy a transdermal cream for $60 a month. He has arthritis, so I get him a painkiller injection every four weeks at $80 per shot. For the hyperthyroidism and for the cardiologist, I get his blood tested for $300 a pop. If the doctors find anything wrong (which is rare), he gets another blood test and X-rays, for as much as $500. I take him to a cardiologist every six months, to the tune of $1,100 per visit. So if you read that paragraph and think I’m too obsessed with saving a broken cat, I don’t blame you.

I love Newcastle, and I would do anything for love. But I won’t do that. I’m not spending what may be thousands of dollars to put my cat in a stressful situation for days on end to buy half of a year. That’s not even up for debate. That doesn’t mean I’m not wracked with guilt. I feel like this is me saying, “I only love him so much.”

Untreated, Newcastle has a month, maybe two. I’ve contacted a hospice veterinarian, and we discussed the process and the price. When it’s time, I will call them, set up an appointment, and they will come to my home, perform the procedure, take his paw print, and cremate him. It’s expensive, but that will be the last money I spend on him, so I don’t care.

I also spoke to Nicole. When she lived with Kate and me twelve years ago, she and Newcastle had formed a bond, and when we lived together the past five years until January, she spoiled him and loved him as his auntie. She will be there for him.

Upon getting the news, I’ve been stoic. I called the hospice, then my parents to let them know, and I sent texts and DMs to my closest friends with the news and the fact that I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to be a complete wreck. When I sat down and decided to write this, I’ve been crying, but it’s a low-key kind of crying, more of a babbling brook than the tidal wave I was Sunday and Monday.

Honestly, I’m relieved. Since I noticed that something was up with him on Sunday, I’ve been worried that it would be his time, and I wouldn’t know, and he would suffer needlessly. Now I know, and I’ve been given enough time to enjoy his company. As you can see below.

Today, he figured out how to get to my owl collection, so he’s still pretty spry.

Considering how bad his health is and that he’s lived so long anyway, he’s probably going to live for at least three months.

Newcastle is my world. I’m not ready.

(I promise I’ll write about something else soon.)

AARF: The American Association of Retired Felines

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From what I recall, the second-to-last time I cried was in the spring of 2010. I was walking on the treadmill because I was severely overweight and out of shape, and I had been prescribed 300 minutes of cardio a week. Earlier that year, my psychiatrist and I found the right cocktail that stopped the depression that had been drowning since Kate and I moved to the DMV area. I was finally myself again. I had figured out how to transfer .mov and .avi files to my iPod, so I was watching a lot of pirated TV (on a teeny tiny screen). Today, I was watching an éclair of a sci-fi show called Warehouse 13, and the episode was about how one of the main characters always felt alone at the holidays, and at the end of the episode, the rest of the cast threw him a surprise Christmas party, and I broke out in tears. The show was fun, but it wasn’t good. I talked to my psychiatrist about it, and we determined that I wasn’t that moved by the show, but it was a product of reacting to the exercise endorphins and the new drug regimen.

Since then, I well up a little at shows and movies when emotional scenes like that happen, but I don’t cry like that anymore, not even when I was ambushed with divorce papers. (I went into a zombie-like state of depression for a few days, but no tears.) Sunday and Monday of this week, I ugly-cried.

My old apartment was 850 square feet (between 250 and 300 square meters) with two bedrooms, a living room, and a bathroom. It had a backyard full of grass. There was a cat named Henry who was pretty active but cuddly (not to me, but he did show me some affection between clearing off the top of my dresser). My roommate was Dr. Doolittle, who lived to spoil animals.

A month ago, Newcastle was moved from there to a 435-square-foot studio with one room and a bathroom, and no roommate or cousin. He had Dad, but that was it. He hid under the bed for the first week, coming out to eat and occasionally socialize. Chalk that down to cats not liking change, especially after three years in the old apartment and five years with roommate and cousin. The second week, he suddenly came out and was very social. He explored (not that there was much to explore), and he ate a lot. He has stairs to my bed, but usually he made a lot of noise when he was finished eating or going to the bathroom, and I’d bring him up to cuddle.

But last week he went back under the bed and he only came out occasionally to eat a couple of bites. He didn’t socialize. He didn’t stay out at all. I was worried about it, and I need him to adjust to living alone, but I gave him his space. And then on Sunday, he yelled at me, and I brought him to the mattress with me and pet him for a couple of seconds before he slunk back onto the floor and under the bed.

I’d seen this before, when Andrew, aka Gray Cat, who was eighteen, turning nineteen in a month, went into what I called the Rage Cave, i.e. the little holes some cat trees have. He didn’t even come out to eat. Kate and I brought him to the vet to put him to sleep, but the vet wanted to try a different painkiller. It was a miracle. Andrew was a kitten again. (For the fourteen years I knew him, Andrew always acted like a kitten.) When I moved out, I made Kate promise to tell me when the cats had to go. She did not keep her promise. Andrew and Magik would be twenty-four this year, so I’m assuming that they’ve moved on a while ago. Thanks to Kate, I never had a good chance to mourn them.

Anyway, recognizing this behavior, I called my vet. They’re closed Sunday. I called Newcastle’s old vet and cardiologist and asked to speak to someone who could help. The vet tech who answered the phone said she could. After I gave the long story about Newcastle’s behavior and his health concerns, she said, “You should bring him to your primary vet.” And hung up. Luckily, I have a secondary vet, and they answered the phone, and they treated me with attention and empathy. We scheduled an appointment for a “Quality-of-Life Wellness Check” on Monday, and I called in sick to work.

After hanging up, I broke out in tears. I knew I would have to put him to sleep. I thought about how much he meant to me, and how I didn’t know how I was supposed to go on without him. Thousands of memories ran through my head. And to make matters worse, I wouldn’t have a chance for a last cuddle because he was in his own Rage Cave.

Two hours later, Newcastle emerged from the bed, ate a bunch of food, and meowed at me. I brought him to the bed, where he spent a while walking back and forth while I pet him, then fell asleep on me. The sadness drifted away until Monday, when I remembered what I was going to be doing. I brought him to the vet, crying every few minutes in the Uber and in the waiting room. When the vet and her assistant asked me what was going on, I couldn’t tell them because I was bawling my eyes out.

She did an exam, and she concluded that he was alert, he was in minimal pain, and since he was eating and going to the bathroom, and I was staying on top of his medications, he was (probably) okay. They drew blood and urine to test, and I find the results out today. I’ve gone from ugly sobs to holding my breath until later this morning when I’m anticipating a call from the vet.

Newcastle is twenty years old. He has cardiac failure, kidney disease, a herniated liver, hyperthyroidism, arthritis, and I think he can’t hear anymore. He has more problems than a nerd in an eighties movie. Let’s be realistic: he’s going to leave sooner rather than later. I know this.

But I’m not ready.

Fur Sure

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Yesterday, I was leaned back in my office chair, taking a mandated break from the sketchbook painting I was working on, my feet up on my desk. At this angle, the pear-like shape of my body makes a perfect day bed for Newcastle, who was purring and looking at me through hooded eyes, under the spell of the double-ear scratches he was getting. Once he was sated, he rested his head on my chest and drifted off to sleep, leaving me in this position for the foreseeable future, and I did something a little difficult to explain. I cried. I cried heavy sobs as I watched him curled up in a large, fluffy ball on my belly. It wasn’t particularly dignified, but I love this cat, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s gone.

Nineteen years ago, I took a trip to Bloomington, Indiana, to meet my close friend, Kate. During the trip, we realized we were soul mates, and shortly after I returned home, arrangements were made for me to move from New York adjacent to her house on Stoneycrest Road. This was in June, and I would be moving in with her in August.

During this margin, she began to have dreams about a kitten who was about to die. She fancied herself a witch, so she took it as a prophecy and went to the animal shelter. She found the kitten from her dreams, and they were going to put him to sleep. He was a runt with pneumonia and a bad case of the worms. Also, he was ugly, with his greasy brown fur, looking like the transition from mogwi to gremlin. Despite the offers of a better cat, Kate adopted him and spent the next six weeks nursing him to health. She told me over the phone that she knew that this wasn’t her kitten. She didn’t know whose, but it wasn’t hers. This gross little thing was kept in the bathroom until he got better and her other two cats got used to him.

By the time he emerged, he was still a little greaseball, but he was a kitten who wouldn’t sit still for anything until he got tired and fell down to sleep. He’s also rock stupid. She named him Newcastle, after her favorite beer of the moment, because he fit in a pint glass and he had a foamy white chest.

Shortly after I moved in, he started following me around, occasionally taking naps with me when he slowed down long enough. Kate, who didn’t want to support another cat and was planning on adopting him out when he got well, knew she couldn’t break us up.

The runt grew.

And he grew some more.

My theory was that he ate some radioactive kibble. In actuality, he was either a Maine Coon or Norwegian Forest Cat mix. At only sixteen pounds at his largest, though, he was still a runt.

He never outgrew his kitten face, leading to Nicole calling him Baby Cat. (She had nicknames for all the cats when she lived with Kate and me.) Also, the brown darkened into a grayish black, with a spot of brown on his belly with the white chest, so that when we violated the two-pet limit in our high-rise apartment building, we pretended he and Magik were the same.

Like all of our cats while I was married, Newcastle is very social. He loves guests, and he especially enjoys parties, where he can beg for snacks, and he’s not even subtle. He loves people food, except for anything with tomatoes in it. When he was younger, I’d run to the bedroom and jump into bed, and he was right behind me, and we’d lie there together, cuddling. When Kate and I were taking a save-the-marriage quiz, guessing details about our spouses, her answer to “What’s your husband’s favorite animal?” was Newcastle. “You guys have a weird relationship,” she said. In our post-nuptial agreement that was the foundation of our divorce, we split up custody of the cats. She got the other two, and I got Newcastle. I almost lost him, though, because I separated broke and unable to afford his vet bills, which she generously covered for me the first three months following the split.

In 2012, we took him in for an ultrasound, and the vet made an interesting discovery. The reason he was often short of breath was not because of scarring from the pneumonia, as we’d thought, but because almost half of his liver was in his lungs. He recommended “cracking him open” and fixing it, but thankfully our second opinion said that wouldn’t be necessary. He was eight years old by that point, and he was doing fine.

Three years later, the vet noticed a heart murmur, and after another ultrasound, he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. It had grown too big and was folding in on itself, necessitating semiannual cardiology visits and three medications every day to keep it from getting worse. two years ago, they added a fourth. Every two weeks, I cut up the pills and fit them into capsules so I can enjoy my least favorite time of the day, shoving it down his throat. Unlike most cats, he takes it like a champ, though he does look betrayed afterward. Last year, his back legs got really wobbly, and they told us he had arthritis (requiring a monthly shot), and earlier this year, hyperthyroidism (requiring an expensive ear cream). I don’t want to go broke taking care of him, and I considered not treating the hyperthyroidism, but all the pet docs say he’s pretty spry for an old guy (guitar riff). He could have three active, healthy years left if he’s properly medicated.

Sure he’s wobbly, sure he’s eight pounds lighter than he was in his youth, sure he can’t jump on my lap anymore, and sure, all he does is sleep, but he’s nineteen years old, and he’s been the most consistent relationship I’ve ever had. Since he is coming up on the end, I let him have some people food (he loves Fritos), and if he shows up, meowing at my desk, whether I’m writing, drawing, or working, I will scoop him up and give him all the attention he deserves. He’s earned it.

There were tears yesterday, but they were happy tears. He may be a big, dumb cat, but he’s my best friend. We’ve grown old together, and I love him so much.

Man’s Best Friend

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I just got a second opinion about Newcastle’s latest health crisis. He’s nineteen years old with a congenital heart condition and now hyperthyroidism. None of the treatments are particularly savory—either for price or how difficult they’re going to make Newcastle’s life. I don’t want to buy more time with him by making him miserable and confused. (“Why is father sticking his finger down my throat?”) And I can’t imagine he’s got long anyway.

When I asked my regular vet what would happen if I chose not to treat it, she gave me a huge guilt trip. When she was listing the treatments, she mentioned a topical ointment, but when I asked about it and told her it was the most appealing, she shamed me for not caring about my cat. A little discomfort a couple of times a day is better than all the suffering he would go through if the ointment didn’t work.

When I talked to my parents, they said, “He’s just a cat.” They didn’t say it in a derogatory way, but as a statement of fact. I trust my mother’s impartiality on this issue despite Newcastle earnestly trying to kill her.

So I got a second opinion. This doctor told me about the effect untreated hyperthyroidism could have, especially on his heart. She told me that cat could possibly live five or six years untreated, but not likely. She looked at his medical records and told me Newcastle could live another three years, but a lot less if the hyperthyroidism went untreated. She said it’s in the early stages, so I could just monitor him for a few months. I basically went to a second vet looking for permission not to treat him, what I got instead was peace of mind and total honesty.

I let Newcastle into my backyard this afternoon, and I monitored him the whole time so he didn’t get into any trouble. I watched him, clumsy, slow, and arthritic, explore. His feet walked on loose soil and packed concrete, and he picked and chose which plants to sniff and which ones to snack on. He escaped into the neighbor’s yard before I could stop him, but I lured him out, using myself as bait. I had brought my phone out with me because I expected to be bored. I was not. I was transfixed.

Overwhelmed, he sat down, and I understood what I want. I want my cat to be this happy until it’s time for him to retire. Nothing will ever compete with the jungle outside the back door, but I’m giving him extra scritches, longer cuddles, some human food, and maybe a spa day or two. And if this means making each other miserable for twenty seconds a day, then I’ll do it. I’m not ready for him to go, and if I can buy another three years, then here’s my credit card. On the other hand, I will not extend the life of a suffering animal just because of my feelings.

Newcastle is not suffering, though. He got to see the backyard. Life is good. I ordered the ointment.

Man’s Second-Best Friend

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Instead of working on my book all late afternoon, I’ve been hanging out with Newcastle, who has been following me from room to room, giving me big, begging eyes for my attention. I let him curl up with me as I watched my one day off slip away from me. 

I love this cat. I love him so much. 

He crawled off of my lap and curled up in the corner of the couch to go to sleep, and he looks old. He is old. I can feel his bones when I pet him. It really hit me just now. He’s lived a lot longer than he was supposed to, with his heart condition and a liver that’s not where it’s supposed to be. But he and the other cat play chase still, even if Newcastle doesn’t really have the stamina to play long. 

When I saw my psychiatrist for the first time, and he asked me what my goals were, I told him, “I want to be as good as my cat thinks I am.” I don’t know if I’m there yet. I think Newcastle has unfairly high expectations. 

I don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s gone. But I know what I’m going to do for these years, these months he has left, When he comes up to me and demands affection, I’m going to put the notebook down and give it to him. This cat has brought me so much joy in my life that the least I can do is give him a happy retirement.