His name was Bob.

His name was Bob

He came to our family already named, though I had thought that Bob would make a great name for a kitty. He was the third of our brood after Mia and Celia, and he joined us just after we bought our first house in South Bend. We adopted him knowing that he had health problems — he was very sick as a kitten and ended up with a persistent and chronic upper-respiratory infection that never really went away. We decided to adopt him in particular because, well, we’re softies, and we figured we could give him a much better life with us than he would have with his foster mom who was already fostering at least 20 cats. We tried, in consultation with Tracy, our super-awesome vet, all kinds of treatments including antibiotics, L-Lysene, allergy decongestants, cortisone, and steroids. Nothing really ever worked. Eventually we just… stopped. He was happy the way he was, and while he covered our house with snot, we just accepted it as part of Bob’s unique charm. You always knew when Bob walked into the room because he sounded like Darth Vader. Stealth was not this cat’s forte.

And oh, the cat snot. It was disgusting. Thick, viscous stuff that varied from clearish to a deep caramel brown. He’d sneeze with little warning, which meant we needed to keep him away from the kids when they were very little. And there are tons of Bob’s “little gifts” all over our walls — a constant reminder of who he was. One in particular, a ginormous smear on the stairway wall, was of interest to Norah when she was barely ambulatory — every night climbing the stairs to bed, she’d stop at that glob of dried cat snot, point at it, and say “Uchh… Bob.” Then go to bed.

Bob could be obnoxious, loud, and annoying. He yowled in the night. He chased invisible mice at 3 a.m. When he played with the other cats, he played hard and bit hard, and it sometimes seemed as though the other cats merely tolerated his presence. He was no alpha kitty. While he didn’t realize his own strength, he never used his strength in an overt act of aggression or leadership. In all the years he was with us, I never once heard him hiss or growl.

But despite all his flaws (and they were legion), he was sweet, cuddly, and fiercely loyal. To me, especially. Bob ended up being my kitty, choosing to sit on my lap when given a choice, and following me around the house. He started sleeping in the crook of my arm at night when Rachel spent her year travel nursing and was my constant companion throughout those months on my own. In the wintertime he’d sleep under the covers with me, and preferred to be under the blankets when cold, leading us to frequently comment that there was a “Bob-shaped lump” on the bed. His purr was like a motorboat — loud enough to keep Rachel from sleeping at times. He played hard, even knocking other cats out of the way to get the feather toy, or the laser light. He ate rubber bands. He retrieved fuzzy mice. He’d bring us toys when he wanted to play.

So this week, I finally admitted to myself what I didn’t want to admit — Bob was losing a lot of weight. He wasn’t just losing his winter weight, he was skinny. He was drinking a lot. And I hadn’t seen him eat much in a while. Rachel took him to the vet, an experience he hates (and during which he invariably poops in the carrier), where they checked him out.

He has a bad heart, the vet said. Very bad. And two bad kidneys. Uncurable, but potentially treatable. Bob’s a sick kitty, and he’s only going to get worse.

The vet, to his credit, wanted to do a CT and EKG to see if he’s strong enough for heart medication, and he’d need to be on a special diet to control the kidney functions… the other cats couldn’t eat Bob’s food, and Bob couldn’t eat the other cat’s food. Two pills a day. Monthly vet checkups. It sounded miserable. If we do this, we asked, what is the best case scenario? How long does he have?

Six months, said the vet, maybe up to two years.

We talked about it. We cried. And we ended up deciding, no. This isn’t right. This isn’t fair to him. He deserves better in his last years than to spend it isolated, deteriorating, and hurting. It’s time for him to go. I left work early today and Rachel and I took him in together.

Norah understands on some level what’s happening, though maybe not explicitly. Before she took him into the vet on Tuesday, Rachel told Norah what she was doing and that Bob is a sick kitty. “Is Bob going to come home?” Norah asked. “Maybe,” said Rachel. “I don’t think he’s going to come home,” Norah said. “I think we’re only going to have 1-2-3 kitties.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

—

His name was Bob, but he answered to Bobber, Bobber-Boo, Bob-Bob, Robert, Bobber-Robber, Buddy, “damn cat,” and a host of other names, some too embarrassing to mention. He was loud. He was snotty. He was sometimes annoying. He was sweet and cuddly. He was loyal. He was eight.

I wish I could say that he died comfortable and warm, purring on my lap, while I stroked him and told him everything would be okay. Instead he died at the vet’s office, scared, and uncomprehending of the gift that I tried to give him. For that I’ll always have regrets. He’s buried beside the house, under the bird feeder at which he loved to watch through the living room window. He had a good life, and my life is that much better for having him in it.

He was a good cat. He was my cat.

I miss him.

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