dseagrav
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Yesterday, my cat Bob had a stroke while he was asleep on my bed. He was at least 15 years old. We're not sure of his real age. The vet said he probably never knew what hit him, and his last memory was probably laying down to sleep. It was a small comfort that he probably didn't suffer.
He had a rough life in the beginning; He was born to a stray cat kept by the occupants of a meth lab. These "people" used the litter of kittens as live bait to train their pit bulls to kill. Bob and his brother Tom were the only survivors. Bob had brain damage from being shaken by one of the dogs, so the druggies named him Retard. They used him to put out cigarettes and tortured him for fun.
Eventually the druggies were tipped off that a raid was coming down, so they evacuated. They took the dogs and the meth cooking equipment, locked up the house with the cats inside, and left. They never came back. For six months the cats lived with the chemicals and waste, eating the mice that infested the place. Bob's brain damage and mobility problems would have limited his ability to catch mice, so we think his brother did most of the hunting.
I found him when a friend asked me to help recover rental property believed to be inside the house. We got permission to break the lock on the back door and went in. Bob was found lying on his side in the kitchen, seemingly dead. I pushed him with my foot to determine if he was stiff or not, and he took a breath. I didn't know then, but I had a new cat. His brother had fared somewhat better, and he tried to fight me the whole way back to the truck. That didn't matter though, I wasn't going to leave them there.
It took some time for the physical scars to heal. The mental scars took a little longer, but after that Bob was a new cat. His brain damage meant he tended toward only turning left or running in (mostly) straight lines, so we nicknamed him the NASCAT. He loved everyone and everything, always coming to meet whatever new people or pets showed up at the house. Nothing seemed to faze him for more than a few minutes. Whenever I moved or got a new roommate, Bob always adapted first. He always made sure the humans were awake at the same times in the morning and did his best to catch whatever critters happened to make it inside. I have no doubt that inside his own mind he was perfectly normal and he was doing his best to help.
He never slowed down as the years went on. Most cats his age have arthritis or similar afflictions and slowly fade, but Bob was running as hard as he could right up to the end. He had a couple "events" before the big one that clued us in that the end was near, but other than that he was as happy and healthy as always when he lie down for that last sleep.
It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already. I'm probably gonna miss him for a long time. I still wouldn't trade even a minute of it for anything. Bob was awesome and it was a privilege to have him with me for all those years. My friends and I joked that he was the master of his own world inside his head, reigning like some medieval king.
He now Bobinates the great beyond.
So here's to Bob Cat, my friend and companion through a lot of crap. He never gave up on either me or himself and did his best all the way to the end. May he forever have legs to rub against and may his turns be always left.
He had a rough life in the beginning; He was born to a stray cat kept by the occupants of a meth lab. These "people" used the litter of kittens as live bait to train their pit bulls to kill. Bob and his brother Tom were the only survivors. Bob had brain damage from being shaken by one of the dogs, so the druggies named him Retard. They used him to put out cigarettes and tortured him for fun.
Eventually the druggies were tipped off that a raid was coming down, so they evacuated. They took the dogs and the meth cooking equipment, locked up the house with the cats inside, and left. They never came back. For six months the cats lived with the chemicals and waste, eating the mice that infested the place. Bob's brain damage and mobility problems would have limited his ability to catch mice, so we think his brother did most of the hunting.
I found him when a friend asked me to help recover rental property believed to be inside the house. We got permission to break the lock on the back door and went in. Bob was found lying on his side in the kitchen, seemingly dead. I pushed him with my foot to determine if he was stiff or not, and he took a breath. I didn't know then, but I had a new cat. His brother had fared somewhat better, and he tried to fight me the whole way back to the truck. That didn't matter though, I wasn't going to leave them there.
It took some time for the physical scars to heal. The mental scars took a little longer, but after that Bob was a new cat. His brain damage meant he tended toward only turning left or running in (mostly) straight lines, so we nicknamed him the NASCAT. He loved everyone and everything, always coming to meet whatever new people or pets showed up at the house. Nothing seemed to faze him for more than a few minutes. Whenever I moved or got a new roommate, Bob always adapted first. He always made sure the humans were awake at the same times in the morning and did his best to catch whatever critters happened to make it inside. I have no doubt that inside his own mind he was perfectly normal and he was doing his best to help.
He never slowed down as the years went on. Most cats his age have arthritis or similar afflictions and slowly fade, but Bob was running as hard as he could right up to the end. He had a couple "events" before the big one that clued us in that the end was near, but other than that he was as happy and healthy as always when he lie down for that last sleep.
It's only been a few hours, and I miss him already. I'm probably gonna miss him for a long time. I still wouldn't trade even a minute of it for anything. Bob was awesome and it was a privilege to have him with me for all those years. My friends and I joked that he was the master of his own world inside his head, reigning like some medieval king.
He now Bobinates the great beyond.
So here's to Bob Cat, my friend and companion through a lot of crap. He never gave up on either me or himself and did his best all the way to the end. May he forever have legs to rub against and may his turns be always left.
