By 2002, Bob had been through two homes. At four and a half, his second owner had to find a new home for him because he was so ornery and aggressive (despite being fixed) that he was causing vet bills for the other cat owners.
Naturally, we thought he'd be a good companion for our cat, Nyx. So I contacted the number on the flyer I saw and made arrangements.
Bob turned out to be a mostly white cat, except his tail was black and grey and looked like he'd stolen it from a raccoon. It only matched his ears, were healed-over rips and notches from fights. His back looked like someone had spilled a latte on him. He had striking blue eyes. I would come to joke that we didn't know his breed, but that he looked like he'd borrowed his parts from various other creatures.
To smooth the transition, we left Nyx at my parent's house while Bob adjusted to his new surroundings. We brought Bob home on Christmas eve in 2002. He howled as if being tortured the whole way. He promptly went under the waterbed and refused to come out. Then he peed under there. He spent the whole night howling, preventing us and guests visiting from California from sleeping. Christmas night was no different.
After a couple of days of this type of behavior, we decided that even though it had been our intention to keep him indoors for a week before letting him out (so he would know where his knew "home" was), we couldn't put up with the peeing or the crying, and since our condo was on the second floor of a taller building, we figured it would be too far of a jump for him to get down, so we let him out.
And finally got some sleep.
The next morning, he was nowhere to be found. We left out food, we called him, nothing. After several days, I finally contacted his old owner, who came and called for him all over the place.
We gave up. We brought Nyx back home.
About three weeks after he disappeared, my husband thought he spotted him near the mailboxes and suggested we leave food out again, so we did. I thought it was pointless because it would be so unlikely to 1) see him there if he was eating the food since the only part of our condo on ground level was the front door and 2) we had no way to know that it was him and not some other cat, or for that matter, a raccoon, eating the food.
29 days after we let him out, he was on the doorstep when I left to go to work.
He never left again.
Our guess was that he'd tried to get back to his old home, but considering he would have had to cross an 8-lane freeway and a river, he couldn't. About four months after his return though, we had to move. I was really worried he wouldn't take the move well. He certainly didn't take the car ride well, howling constantly again.
Just so you know, "howling constantly" is not an exaggeration. It was not a pleasant noise to listen to, and to keep myself sane, I started counting.
I got as high as 7. That is, 7 seconds between howls.
He sorta did okay with the relocation. Like our first place, he immediately found a "spot" on the carpet that he claimed as his personal litter box. I learned quickly that when he howled at 4:00am, he wanted out to do his business. He trained me to let him out and as soon as we could afford it, we replaced the carpet with hardwood.
He got better about using the box, I got better about keeping it immaculate, but more importantly, I got better at putting him outside at night or when we'd be gone for a few hours.
He did disappear a few times. The first time, he was gone for a few days and we were worried it was the end of him. Even food we left out wasn't being eaten, which was very unusual (normally, even raccoons would eat it). I decided to go out and look for him and headed west down the street from my house and circled the block. It's about a third of a mile to circle our block, so by time I got home, I feared we wouldn't see him again.
Literally right as I got home, I heard a pathetic mewing. After searching around a bit, I looked up. He was literally in the tree that is just to the east side of the property line of our driveway. In other words, had I walked the other direction when I went on my search, I would not have left my property.
Despite being pretty good at navigating all kinds of things (including jumping off the second floor of our condo before), he had managed to get stuck in a tree. I managed to coax him down a low-hanging branch, but when I tried to get him, he scrambled back up towards the trunk.
We didn't have a ladder large enough to reach the top of the branch, so I perched it close to the end, coaxed Bob down again and then had to wrestle him out of the tree. After being hissed at, spat on, scratched all over and bitten, I watched him run off to the porch to go cry at the door to get in the house.
You're welcome, Bob.
He remained an ornery booger. He would battle our other cat and when we got our dog, quickly established who was in charge, by scratching her eyeball when she (the dog) was only ten weeks old. Even when our puppy turned into a full-grown Golden Retriever, she knew to avoid Bob.
For example, our house has a "loop" in that the front entryway goes straight into the living room, the dining room is adjacent to the right, the kitchen is adjacent to the dining room, the family room is then adjacent to the right of the kitchen, and also has a doorway back to the front entryway. If Bob was parked in the doorway at any point in the loop and Zwina (the dog) wanted to get to the other side of Bob, rather than walking next to the cat (where there was plenty of room), hopping over (which she is capable of), she would instead walk through three other rooms to get to a point three feet from her starting place.
Just to avoid Bob.
I'm telling you.
Ornery.
Booger.
Honestly, though, I don't blame Zwina for being cautious. This is the cat that fought off THREE LARGE RACCOONS AT THE SAME TIME in our back yard.
His favorite place in the house (aside the waterbed, which is heated, so it is the first place we check when looking for any of our cats) was the one room he was forbidden from: my massage room. However, the latch on the door doesn't work properly, and Bob learned early-on that if he leaned into the door properly, he could let himself in.
Fortunately, he couldn't open the closet doors where I stored my sheets. So unless I forgot and left them open, they were fine. Although the number of times I ran otherwise clean sheets through the sanitary cycle to rid them of cat hair/dander and reclean them for client use was a bit high, he did manage to teach me (in addition to teaching me to get up in the middle of the night to let him out) to close the closet doors.
For one of our family trips to Morocco, we left Bob with my dad and brother (FYI, my dad lives an hour away. I still didn't get over my "7" maximum seconds between howls--that hour drive felt like a DAY. Also, I was near deaf when we arrived.) Apparently both my dad and brother fed Bob (and the other cats), so when we came home, we no longer had Bob.
We had Blob.
This cat, who was healthiest around 9 pounds, was about 16 pounds. It took awhile (and some very cranky kitties) to get the weight off, but we eventually did.
And my life of doing cat-output-related laundry continued on, as irritating as ever.
Jump to 2007. On the morning I had to go to the hospital for my C-section, I had my husband take a picture of me in the front yard with my big pregnant belly. I was holding Bob in the photos.
Then, after our trip to Morocco in early 2009, we came home to the same problem: Blob. I put the cats on their diet again.
Unfortunately, by now Bob was ten and a half. Although Bob was still plenty fiesty, the other cats (who had always been larger than him) now knew that his reputation was greater than the being. So, through intimidation, Bob ended up being the only cat on a diet.
He started eating the dog food, which did not agree with him, and created additional cleanups and laundry. (I know, I know, at this point, you're wondering why we kept him. Combine sucker for animals with third home for this kitty with who the heck else would take him with my husband doesn't believe in euthanasia, and we still had Bob and his "quirks.")
It wasn't until he vomited a couple of times that I realized something was wrong. I felt worse when I went to pick him up and realized that he had become far too skinny--and that it had been awhile since I'd held him.
Off to the emergency vet, who luckily is about 1.5 miles away. I knew Bob was not well because I reached 14 in my seconds-between-howls count: double all previous drives. Bob was jaundiced, dehydrated, and pronounced as most likely having liver cancer, and being in liver failure. I was given the option of spending "hundreds, if not thousands" in medical care that "had a 20% or less chance" of working OR I could choose euthanasia.
Financially (my husband had JUST started a new job after being laid off for six months), we couldn't do the expensive cancer treatments. Also, I knew my husband hadn't said "goodbye" to Bob when we left the house and whether or not it would bother my husband, that bothered me. So I asked if we had ANY other options. Anything. The vet did say that she could give him an IV and hydrate him and then we could send him to his regular vet in the morning for tests that would be more conclusive and we could make a decision off of those.
So we did. Turns out he didn't have liver cancer, but had what is called "fatty liver." Essentially he lost too much weight too quickly and the liver having to process all that fat becomes overly toxic and all kinds of other problems start, which is where he was. But not to worry, despite being in liver failure, he could still probably live a fair bit longer and be okay. We just needed to put him on a special prescription diet.
After the IV he had perked up quite a bit anyway, so I was relieved. We took him home and all was well for a couple of months. Until the vomiting started again.
Back to the vet. Turns out Bob was constipated. Despite that it cost us about $160 in vet fees, I found it funny. The vets were not as amused. Apparently it took not one, not two, but ELEVEN enemas to clear him out. NOBODY liked Bob by time he left. Let me make this clear. This is the most amazing vet I've ever been to. They are kind and supportive and actually quite reasonably priced and I just love them and wouldn't take my animals anywhere else (except the emergency vet, who is also great). I've had other vets (who were good), but these people are just amazing. So if Bob was enough of stinker that they actually commented, "He was not a good patient," I can imagine what he must have been like.
Because we see it all the time at home.
Again, though, he perked up and all was well. For about a year.
Then I left to visit my sister for my nephew's birthday. I was gone for a little over a week and my husband fed Bob, but didn't guard him when he ate--meaning the other cats bullied him away from his food. (In my husband's defense, I didn't tell him to do this, it is a pain in the butt, and I don't blame him.) So Bob was underweight and sick again when I got home.
In to the vet, again. I was extra worried by time I arrived at the vet because I reached 58 in my seconds-between-howls count. This time they decided he'd need IVs again, and showed me how to do them at home. The easy part was hanging the IV bag from the pot rack in the kitchen, getting the needle ready, and catching Bob. The hard part was holding my used-to-be-cat-and-now-exclusively-sharp-teeth-and-claws-flailing-about-demon. But he got his IV.
A few more treatments, which became increasingly more difficult because he didn't want to come anywhere near me, it took cleverly wrapped towels and my husband to hold him down, and he was back to his normal self.
Over the last year since that, though, it's been really difficult to keep the weight on him. Healthiest at about 9 pounds, he was around 7. I had to sit with him for feedings to make sure he got to eat and we started feeding him in the kitchen, separate from the other cats.
We've dogsat for a few friends. It always amuses me how quickly ALL visiting dogs learn that Bob is to be strictly avoided (and they join Zwina in the walk-through-three-rooms-around-the-loop-to-avoid-Bob practice). For the most part, Bob would stay hidden, but if he ventured out, the dogs would steer clear--at least, after their first encounter with Bob.
When I left again, I paid the neighbor girl to do special Bob feedings. I kept worrying because he was slowly getting scrawnier, but despite increasing the quantity of feedings, he just wasn't eating as much. It got to the point where I'd give him about an eighth of a cup of food, he'd eat half of it, and then wander off.
When we recently dogsat two Golden retrievers (meaning we had three goldens in the house), I was in my daughter's bedroom and asked if they'd like to go for a WALK. The dogs, all excited and scrambling all over each other to get to the front door, dashed out into the hallway and then came to a halt, falling all over each other to stop. When I peeked around the corner to see what brought 200 pounds worth of Golden Retrievers to a screeching halt, guess what I found? That's right.
7 pounds worth of cranky cat Bob.
The visiting dogs just couldn't understand why Bob didn't want to be their playmate. Bob couldn't understand why they wouldn't leave him alone. He even seemed to delight in tormenting them by sitting just on the opposite side of the sliding glass door and slinking around as the visiting dogs went nuts barking at him.
Just last week when I was working at my computer, Bob settled down contentedly on my mousepad. I was annoyed because it left me about a half inch circle to move my mouse, but it was better than relocating him to the tune of his claws, his teeth, my skin, my blood, and been there, done that.
I think the final straw was that I left for three days to a class and because he wasn't getting those special feedings (just my husband leaving food out for him a couple times a day--that the dog or other cats ended up eating), he lost that last bit of weight that pushed him over the edge. Trying to boost his weight, I was feeding him every 30-60 minutes, with the hope that he'd eat something.
I tried to feed him anything he would eat, but he went from not eating much to sniffing and walking away. When he vomited, I had a feeling that this trip to the vet would be one-way.
I had the family say goodbye to him last night, and did my best to explain to my daughter what would probably happen. That he was very sick and the vet might not be able to help him and that he would get a certain kind of medicine that would make him die, so he wouldn't come home with us. Whether my almost-four-year-old is a stronger soul than me or she wasn't terribly attached to him or she didn't really "get it," I don't know, but she seemed fine.
I contacted an old friend and chatted a lot about it. She said some things I hadn't thought of which made me feel better. Like when I said I was afraid that if I'd be putting him down for "convenience" to myself, she pointed out that I would have done this years ago (8.5 years of cleaning up inappropriately placed cat outputs) if I were doing it for "convenience."
I cried on the way to the vet. I cried more as I realized his howls were only halfhearted and that I lost count somewhere around 200 seconds-between-howls. I cried some more at the vet's office, as the vet pronounced that he was a sorry-looking kitty (he weighed only 4.5 pounds) and my options were euthanasia or "heroics." Not wanting to go the route of IVs or home kitty enemas (which he told me might not even work because he was probably so toxic), I reluctantly chose euthanasia. He supported my decision and went to go prepare the injection.
While the vet was out of the room, I suddenly realized that although I wasn't trying to "hide" any of the process, I didn't want my daughter to see Bob get his injection. Not because I was trying to spare her the moment of her pet's death, but because she is already terrified of shots and HATES them. I didn't want her to develop any kind of association that a shot might also put her to sleep like it did the cat and create other problems for vaccinating, so I had her wait out in the lobby.
And here's the hard part for animal lovers. The vet laid down Bob, who actually didn't resist. In fact, as I stroked his head, he purred pretty loudly. I felt a level of relief that he would be able to pass quickly and somewhat peacefully.
Except the vet struggled with the vein because he was so dehydrated. He called in a tech to help. She too had problems, and by then Bob was in full force, writhing and howling, which made me feel awful that his last moments were frightening and painful. Suddenly though, he calmed down as the vein was hit, the anesthesia was in, and he was gently laid down. The vet stayed and waited for his heart to stop, then helped me wrap him in a towel and put him back in the crate.
I carried the crate out to the car, and my daughter wanted to see him. I told her I'd let her see him at the cremation place we were headed for.
I cried some more on the way.
The cremation place is also quite close to my home. I'd never had need to go in there and was quite impressed. The staff was kind, they provide so many options, and they let me take the time I needed. My daughter was getting very anxious about getting to see Bob when he was dead. They took Bob's crate into the back and then called my daughter and I into a viewing room, where they had him lying in a basket, with a little blanket over him. He just looked peaceful.
My daughter went up and gave him a hug and a kiss. Then she was done and since it was past her nap time, honestly a bit of a pain as I tried to take care of the details and simultaneously keep her off of furniture, not breaking delicate paw print keepsake samples, and just generally being 3.
I cried some more when we got back in the car.
When we got home, I put my daughter down for a nap. I cried some more as I toodled around the house, unable to stick to any project/task to completion (okay, I know that's normal for me, but it was WAY worse today).
I finally laid down to take a nap with my daughter. I only slept about 20 minutes, but it was enough to kind of "reset" me. At least for a bit.
By 9:00 p.m., I was in full-on grief mode and crying and crying. It was so bad, my daughter came up, giving me hugs and kisses and saying, "It's going to be okay, Mommy."
Part of what was hard about today was knowing that because of my husband's beliefs that euthanasia for animals is wrong was knowing that this was going to have to be completely my decision and furthermore, I wouldn't have his support. So I was on my own.
Surprisingly, he came in and just hugged and comforted me a bit. We talked about Bob and--as hard as I know it must have been for him--he said absolutely nothing and implied absolutely nothing about me having done the "wrong" thing per his beliefs. Which, weirdly, felt so supportive that I was grateful.
I started to write this and realized that even if this is an entry that my few readers skip, I needed to write it. I needed to tell the story of Bob, and all his little anecdotes that I could remember (I was surprised how many of them kept popping up), and in itself, this has been healing for me.
Rest in peace, Bob. We'll miss you, you ornery crotchety old man cat.
I won't miss the extra laundry.
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