I met Sparky on August 18, 2003. He had only been in the shelter three days but his chances weren’t very good. He was three years old, declawed, neurotic, and a very aggressive biter. I knew about the age and the claws. He had been surrendered to this shelter because “the new baby was allergic to the cat.” For the past ten years, I have said that they should have got rid of the new baby. I mean, who was there first?
I don’t know what happened to Sparky in those first three years or what sort of life he had there but I know who he was when I got him.
He was frightened. He was angry. He was aggressive.
I was frightened. I was angry. I was lonely.
In those early weeks I struggled with a bunch of things:
- Was it wise to be seeking a pet so soon after separating from my wife? It had such a sense of finality about it.
- What about his name? I mean, Sparky is a stupid name for a cat. It’s a dog’s name. But it was his name. He found himself removed from his home and transported to this other place. For God’s sake, he should at least get to keep his name.
- Would I be able to tolerate his aggressive behavior? He would come to me for attention but his tolerance before biting was very short. He would be all lovey-dovey and without warning he’d be biting me and kicking with his back feet. He would often break the skin with his teeth and back claws. I desperately wanted and needed to love this guy. And I desperately wanted and needed him to love me too, but damn, he didn’t make things easy!
Obviously, I’m glad I stuck things out.
In those early days, I would come home from work, and read the paper. He would come by for a few minutes of love, would bite me, and go away mad. Eventually, he would come back and lie on the bed, or on the “L” of my desk. Overtime that would become his spot. We spent a lot of time in comfortable silence, he and I. He would always want to be with people, but don’t touch him.
He came with a bag of Iam’s Hairball Control cat food and other than Temptations Cat Treats, he would eat nothing. And I mean NOTHING. He wanted to smell everything I put into my mouth, and I offered him everything I put in my mouth but he wouldn’t take it. He wouldn’t even deviate from the Iam’s and Temptations. I tried wet food, I tried other kinds of snacks, but nothing!
Except for one thing. And it took me a long time to figure out what it was.
Now I’m a big guy. I like to eat. Portion control and my weight are things that I have struggled with all of my life. So while I like snacks and sweets, I generally don’t keep them in the house. I would go grocery shopping every 3-4 weeks, and I would buy my treats, and I would eat them all right away, and then eat nothing “extra” for weeks afterward.
Whoppers, the chocolate-covered, malted-milk balls, are a guilty pleasure of mine. I would always buy the carton. Now these are especially dangerous for me as I will eat one of the smaller cartons (the quart, not the half gallon) in two or three sittings. Whenever I would be eating Whoppers, Sparky would be all over me. Smelling inside the carton, batting the carton. Now, they make a very distinctive sound in the carton so I thought it was their round shape and sound that was attracting him.
But it was the chocolate! My furry, black roommate was a certifiable chocoholic!
Now before you get all judgmental on my ass, I am perfectly aware of the toxic affect of chocolate on cats & dogs. But I still would share it with him. He never got enough to be dangerous at all. He preferred straight up, milk chocolate. Don’t be mixing no orange flavored crap with his chocolate. No, sir! He was partial to the Lindt brand, but never forgot his Whoppers roots. I would bite of the tiniest corners from the chocolate I was eating. He never got more than three tastes. He got so bad that he could recognize the sound of the aluminum foil wrapping the chocolate and would begin hounding me. I would have to go to the bathroom, close the door and get my chocolate if I didn’t want to share.
It’s funny as I write this I don’t know when he fell in love with me. I guess it was one of those things that happened a little bit each day. He got to know me, I got to know him. People would visit us in our “two room slice of heaven”, sometimes overnight. He never liked the excitement of overnight guests, except for Diane. He was always glad to see them go. Our first night alone again we would execute our routine and I could almost hear him say “Just you and me again, Dad”.
I remember one morning, I was awakened by a terrible commotion in the kitchen. When I got out, I saw that somehow he had managed to get himself bound to my office chair with packing tape. wrapped around him, that arms of the chair. He was a sight! I laughed so hard, but he was panicked. In later years, I would remind him that I saved him from his predicament rather than getting a camera and documenting the whole thing first. And no one would have blamed me for doing so.
As it became clearer that I would be moving to Seattle, I worried a lot about Sparky. Should I take him? Would he tolerate the car ride? Should I fly him? I’ve talked about how I conditioned him to the car. Honestly, I worked harder at it that I needed to. When we opened the carrier door and let him out, it was like he was waiting for it. We used to joke about Sparky seeing some country before he dies, feeling the wind in his fur. And he did. He liked it. A lot.
He and I went from 9 years of solitude, our own Odd Couple, if you will, to living with a woman, a seventeen year old, and two other cats. It was an adjustment for both of us.
About fours months after we arrived, Sparky started to get sick. It was obviously the cancer even then but we didn’t know that. There is condition that young cats can develop, especially females. As the days get longer, and the nights get shorter, leaving less hunting time, the cats become distressed believing that they will starve to death. This sets up a stress condition which erodes the protective coating in the bladder. The urine irritates the bladder setting up the need to pee. Treatment is anti-inflammatory medications and pain relievers, giving them time enough to heal. As several seasons pass, the condition goes away as the animal learns that they really aren’t going to die. We considered Sparky’s unfamiliarity with the seasons in the Pacific Northwest the likely cause. We even considered that the inappropriate urination could have been him being “mad” at his situation. Wouldn’t have been unreasonable.
During his time, over here where people don’t drop their R’s, the sun sets over the ocean, and radio stations start with the letter K, the boy developed a taste for more than his Iams, Temptations, and chocolate. He was suddenly eating butter, enchiladas, ice cream, potato chips, and more. He turned into a regular greedy gut.
As the months progressed, I noticed he was losing weight. We stepped up his caloric intake to try and help. Then the peeing became really, really bad again. We took him to the vet who considered it possible that we were still dealing with the seasonal condition but he had dropped from 12 pounds in September/October to 8.5 at the beginning of May.
Three weeks of treatment didn’t help like it did the last time. We scheduled an ultrasound and on May 20, 2013 he was diagnosed with bladder cancer. He had lost another half pound in those three weeks. The tumor, occupying 40% of his bladder, had attached itself to the ureters from the kidneys. One kidney was already enlarged. Through my tears, we talked at great length about his quality of life, whether he would be in pain (he was not, bladder cancer is not like a bone or pancreatic cancer), and how would I know it was “time”.
For five weeks, I pampered him. All the snacks he wanted. Because he was declawed, he was an indoor cat. I let him out, and followed him around the yard to make sure he didn’t get in trouble. I tried my best to let him know how much I loved him and how much he meant to me. He got his anti-inflammatory and a high-CBD tincture that I hoped would help.
The beginning of last week the decline became very noticeable. I was working from home and so I was spending a lot of time with him. His snacks, which he would ordinarily gobble, he picked at. He stopped grooming himself. The once proud cat, I called my furry roommate was gone. He had become so frail. I knew it was “time”.
Before we went to the vet, I let him gorge himself on chocolate.
And on July 1, 2013, I committed my pal to care of the Universe.
Now. Let me tell you what he meant to me.
- I got him when I separated from my wife. Left my kids behind. He was my only family for a long time.
- He helped me battle soul-crushing loneliness.
- We were very, very, close companions.
- He came with me to Seattle and helped me through a major life transition.
- And a year later, as if he was saying “I know you’ll be OK without me. I gotta go now”
There’s so much symbolism wrapped up with this guy we could write a movie about our relationship.
I’m very, very sad. I will miss him. I worry about having made the right decision. I mean, I know I did. But it always feels so arbitrary to me. What if that wasn’t the day? What if it was tomorrow? or worse. What if it was last week? Being trusted to always look out for his best interest. And I know most of what I’m feeling is my own selfishness. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to accept. There’s no turning back now.
Sparky,
I love you. Thank you for sharing your time with me. I hope I was worthy of your love. I’ll see you on the other side, pal.
Sparky
March 22, 2000 –
July 1, 2013
wondering aloud 
This was worthy of some tears. Spark man was a good kitty.