I mean, I think he's just a cat.
A collection of fur, bones, and meat that I picked up from a shelter one afternoon in May.
People in the countryside would probably call him unnecessary (I'll tell you someday about a friend of mine who lived near a busy road and used to give his cat names like “Squishy” ). Theologians would probably argue that the Bible does not mention his position at the Pearly Gates.
But he's more than just a cat.he our Cat.
When Watson (née “Smudge”) came to us, he was curious, a little crazy, and obsessed with attacking our feet as we slept at night for no particular reason. did. He has a habit of eating the bread we forget to put away, uprooting the trash can, and tearing up the house like crazy at unexpected intervals, leading to what the girls call “destructor mode.” did.
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He likes to lie on the girls' bellies and lick their ears, and the girls happily oblige.
All these quirks we got to know just a few months later. he is our cat
And that means he's part of our family.
And families do difficult things together. right?
A few weeks ago, something incomprehensible started happening with Watson. He started to become weak and we went to the vet several times to determine exactly what the problem was. Essentially, there was nothing we could do, and there wasn't much we could do. So now I'm waiting and watching.
Until last week, we had never been on the parenting journey of preparing our children (or explaining to them) for the death of a pet. And, as often happens in life, this doesn't match up with our neat little succession plans. The older ones are gone and the younger ones are conveniently already in place to soften the blow. But here we are sitting with a seriously ill kitten who doesn't have much time left to live, and there's nothing we can do. We have done and spent all that we could and could spend. Our vet probably gave us something to buy us some more time. And now we can love this little guy until we're tired of fighting anymore.
When we brought Watson home in May, we didn't know we would have less than a year with him. But I firmly believe that God did it. God sees, sees, and cares. And for whatever reason, God chose our family to love this tiny creature until the end of our lives, no matter how short.
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What a blessing to be able to share the same space with such a cheeky, energetic, adorable, and kind child. (Senior cat Sherlock the Curmudgeon always disagrees.) We don't know how much time he has left, but whatever time he has left, we're certainly trying our best. I can love him with all my might.
Isn't this how we live our lives anyway?
The night we told the girls what happened to Watson, Mr. Roy looked into the architect's room.
Earlier that evening, Watson was curled up on the blanket at my feet, and before I could tuck her into the blanket, she expressed concern that she would kick him in his sleep.
“It's going to be okay,” I reassured her.
A few hours later, Mr. Roy looked in and beckoned me to come to the door.
There was Watson on the bed, blinking in the darkness with the light of his cell phone.
And there was an architect with pillows and blankets on the floor next to the bed. She was worried that she would accidentally kick her sick, sleeping cat, so she decided to sleep on her floor instead.
He may be just a cat, but he's our cat – our Watson.
And until his final days, we will love him as much as we can as a family.
Abby Roy is a mother of three girls who spends her days exploring. She writes to keep her sane. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but her responses are structured around her bedtime and weekends.
