On A Great Cat

I meant to post this April 5, but somehow, apparently, didn't.

Six years ago, on April 5, 2011, at 7:30 p.m., Amy’s cat Nicodemus died. He was a great cat, and sort of won me over as a dog person since birth. We had a rocky start, he and I. Amy had him since before we were married, and Nic didn’t exactly take well to sharing her with someone else. In the first week he lived with us, he jumped from the top of my 5 drawer dresser onto my chest while I was asleep in bed, and I still think he was trying to kill me. However, as the photo shows, we eventually came to an understanding.

Nic was a great cat. He was strong, independent and fierce, but he was also friendly, loving and empathetic. He used to purr at the vet so loudly that they had to dry to get him to stop purring to listen to his heart. He’d curl up on Amy when she was sad and make her feel better. He taught the kitten that we brought in, Loki, how to be just about as fantastic as he was. I think of him as the Platonic Ideal of a cat, and tend to measure other cats against him.

I’ll also never forget the day I watched Nic kill a chipmunk while he was just hanging around with Amy outside. She was outside doing something in the yard at our first apartment, and Nic was just sort of lounging around her. A chipmunk scurried across the ground behind her, and Nic, who didn’t have front claws, bopped it on the head. While the little rodent tried to reorient himself to reality, Nic grabbed it casually in his teeth and tossed it over his shoulder, then stomped down with his back food, quickly killing it. He wasn’t malicious, just a perfect predator in his element. He moved with grace and confidence and ease, and he wasn’t about to allow this interloper in his domain.

Nicodemus was taken from us. We’re pretty sure it was cancer. He developed trouble breathing. He was panting, which is very strange for a cat. We took him to the new vet that had just opened up down the street from us, Dr. Reidelbach. He was literally just getting the office set up, and didn’t have any of his equipment in yet, but he explained to us what was happening, and directed us to OSU. At OSU, they drained the fluid away from around his lungs to let him breathe easier, and told us that it was either cancer or congestive heart failure. After a painful conversation with Amy and the vets there, we decided that we couldn’t save him. So we held him for one last time, and then let him go.

That day was the day that Nic really taught me the last, and, though I didn’t know it at the time, some of the most useful lessons. He taught me again how to feel the pain of watching someone I loved in need and pain, and how to make decisions about how to help them. He showed me how I could ease their suffering when they didn’t know why they were hurting, and help to make them feel safe. And he taught me how to keep a part of me working to make decisions about how to help him even as I was watching him in pain. Neither of us knew it that day, but ultimately, Nic helped to prepare me for Teddy and all that we’ve gone through with him. Thanks, Nicodemus. I only wish you and Teddy could have met.