We brought you home on the bus on a warm September afternoon. You stuck your paws out the little holes in the cardboard box and yelled the entire way while we debated what your name should be.
We were newly back from a trip to Mexico and had a waiter at a restaurant there named Lupe which we considered briefly for your name before settling on Tango. It seemed to fit.
I knew you would be ours the first time I saw you. You were up for adoption along with your sister. I tried as hard as I could to convince Mister to take both of you but considering his allergies, I was lucky to be getting even you.
You were technically my birthday present that year, although you arrived a few days early. We didn’t want to wait for fear that someone else would snap you up.
Mister said you weren’t allowed to sleep with us so we made you up a little bed in the spare room. That was before we knew how loud you could be. You cried all night, and most of the next, and the next and the next. That was about as long as you lasted in the spare room. You still weren’t allowed in our bedroom but we decided giving you free reign in the rest of our apartment might quiet you down a bit.
You quickly displayed a knack for climbing, toppling our 4 foot high fake house plant more times than I could count. We sucked it up and shelled out $100 on one of those scratching post towers that stretched from floor to ceiling. In the years that followed we would move that thing to three different apartments, while our friends looked on and laughed.
When we were in-between apartments you stayed with Mister’s parents, neither of whom were particularly fond of pets. They soon warmed to you though. How could they not?
You stayed inside, I was fearful that you would get lost or hurt outside in the big world. Not that you didn’t try though. You got out once when you were at Mister’s parents’ place and, apparently no longer satisfied with your 6-foot scratching post, you ran straight up the huge tree in their front yard. Not every cat can actually say they’ve been rescued by the fire department.
When we brought home baby number one we weren’t sure how you would react. You decided to deal with the change through total avoidance. Whichever room the baby was in, you were in a different one. As she grew, so did your acceptance, not so much as blinking an eye when she would grab your fur or dump your food dish. You were the king of easy-going indifference.
When we settled into our first house we were excited with the prospect of having a real Christmas tree for the first time. Learning over the past few holiday seasons that sitting in the branches among the lights and ornaments was one of your favourite places to be, we spent the extra money to get a sturdy base. It only took you two days to get the better of it, welcoming us home one evening to the site off the tree toppled in the living room, needles and shattered ornaments everywhere, a gallon of water seeping into the carpet. After we got it right-side-up and cleaned up the mess, Mister tied a rope around the tree and secured it to the side of the TV cabinet. Every time I see the nail hole in the cabinet it makes me smile.
We’ve had our ups and downs. I’ll be honest, I could have done without all of the throwing up. And the yelling. I’m not sure why you yelled, rather than meowing like other cats. I’ve decided it’s because you had much more important things to say than other cats.
And the climbing. Climbing the trees, the screen doors, the back of the couch, the curtains. I don’t know anything about your family background but if I didn’t know better I would say you were part monkey.
But those are small things, I know. And they’re part of what made you “you.” Some people think cats are dull and have no personality. They obviously never met you.
You who loved watermelon more than anything else in the whole world. You who, up until a few years ago, used to try and walk all the way around the outside of the bathtub while I had a bubble bath. Every single time you would slip and fall in the water, screeching and clawing and looking like a drowned rat. Wet was really not your best look. But no matter how many times you fell, you would always try it again the next time. You were never one to be easily discouraged. You who refused to drink water out of a dish like a regular cat and would only drink it straight from the tap, jumping right into the sink any time you heard it running.
But through it all, you were always there for us, pretty much every day for almost 14 years.
There every time we opened the door, welcoming us whether we had been gone for ten days or ten minutes.
There in the middle of the night when I was rocking one baby or the other, coming into the room to say hello, no matter what the hour.
There, dozing in a patch of sunlight, wherever it landed, moving every few minutes to ensure maximum exposure.
There on Saturday mornings scratching at the bottom of our bedroom door, kindly informing me that it was time to get up and give you your treats, even if it was only 6:30 am and even though it was the weekend.
There curled up against the wall in the hallway, just outside the kids bedroom doors. Always keeping an eye on them, ever the protective big brother, reminding everyone that it was you who was there first, you who made us into a family even before they arrived.
So tonight, when we had to say goodbye, it was my turn to be there for you. It sucked that we had to do this; I struggled with the decision for months. Honestly, I hoped you would just not wake up one day, save me from having to decide, but I see now that you needed my help. You were old, you were sick, you couldn’t do any of the things that made you who you were, so I knew it was time.
The only thing harder than letting you go was seeing you suffer. So I did this hard thing, this horrible thing that I didn’t want to do and I comforted myself with memories of you, the way you were.
Every time we cut a watermelon or open a can of tuna I will listen for the sound of your paws on the floor. When I pull out the boxes of Christmas decorations I will get a little weepy when I see the stocking with your name on it. When I put up the Christmas tree I will think of how you used to sit in the branches and when you got too old to climb, how you used to spend hours laying on the tree skirt, hidden behind the boxes. Every time I turn on the tap to brush my teeth I will expect to see you with your head under the water, having a drink.
You, the tiny little kitten in the cardboard box, yelling for the whole world to hear.
You, the best gift I ever received.
We miss you already.
