Indy

‘She was a bit naughty,’ the oncology vet says on the phone. ‘We had to sedate her.’  I imagine your lobster-like retreat, claws swiping at anyone within reach. You’re down, but far from out. 

*** 

I remember you at ten weeks, all ears and small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. You were the colour of marzipan with a hint of blue that, when fully fledged, would paint your tail, paws, ears and mask in the manner of your breed. 

Not that my partner and I saw much of you then. You hid in the wardrobe, making one of my slippers your bed. You appeared only for food and to use the litter tray.

Our five-year-old cat, Cocoa, whose black-brown points and gregarious nature may have reminded you of your mother, resigned herself to your presence within a fortnight. You  bonded with her like superglue to wood, the two of you in tandem, whether it was on the  sofa, our bed or roaming the neighbourhood. 

It was a cloudless Friday morning when we’d waved you and Cocoa goodbye on the footpath before heading off to the shops. 

You were at the back door when we returned a few hours later. We watched you wolf kibble while we fixed lunch for ourselves. Cocoa was probably sunning herself next door. 

In the cooler months you’d slip under the doona at night, wedged between her and me,  your head exposed and hot breath fanning my face. I’d trace the line of your forehead past the occiput to where your microchip sits between your shoulders, palpate it a couple of times then let my hand come to rest on your rib cage. I’d feel the tremor of your purrs as we sank into our respective dreamworlds.  

That night it was just you. Cocoa would surely be on the front mat in the morning. 

By Monday, we knew this time was different. In the weeks that followed, we were too busy searching for Cocoa to think about you. While we grieved for our loss, you ached for your mother figure, mentor and friend. You took your sorrow across the fence in the morning and  brought it back at night, your voice alternating between rolling thunder and a dramatic soprano in high dudgeon. You’d been abandoned. Mostly by us. 

Maya, a Cocoa lookalike complete with her personality, arrived four months later.

In those early days of inhabiting our spare bedroom, she conversed with you through the  gap under the door. You growled at her kitten squeaks, your mind made up.

You wandered the neighbourhood by day, hoping she’d be gone by nightfall. You  abandoned all social skills, your worst offence being to back up against a wall, lock eyes with me and jiggle your pelvis. The house stank of ammonia.  

I snapped when your jaws clamped on Maya’s throat. 

I thought about sending you to a shelter, knowing that they were full of unwanted animals  and not even your exotic looks would survive a trial period. I considered attaching stone weights to your legs and throwing you into Sydney Harbour after the ferries stopped running for the night. I discussed these ideas in your presence, watching for a flicker of repentance in those ice-blue eyes.  

Netting our back garden and Prozac saved you. Every day you plied the same route in your prison yard, turning the buffalo yellow where it refused to grow. Prozac made you growl and hiss less. Then you started purring in that low, soft rumble I’d forgotten. One evening, you jumped onto the sofa and licked Maya’s head. 

It was more of a business arrangement than devotion. Maya learned to stand back while you sampled the meal, jumped onto laps and anointed the litter trays. In exchange, you let her curl up with you. The truth is, she’s come in handy for warmth, companionship and – when you went deaf – to be your ears. But you’ve always been the boss. 

I spotted the lump in your neck shortly after your sixteenth birthday. A biopsy confirmed  lymphoma, a fast-growing variety. We could saturate you with cortisone or start a six-month course of chemotherapy. I ruminated on these options to the soundtrack of your sneezing and coughing. 

*** 

It’s 6.45pm when a nurse delivers you in your carrier. She hands me a bag of medications and debriefs on today’s treatment. We are to bring you back every Wednesday, driving across the Harbour Bridge in peak-hour traffic. The treatment will end when we’re travelling abroad, an obstacle I’ll navigate closer to the time. 

I’m encouraged by the warbling coming from the back seat. I stick my finger through the  grille of the carrier and find your face. I eschew the hateful lump, focusing on the prospect of another year, maybe two. 

You go into remission by week four but have lost one fifth of your body weight. You’ve always been small, but now you’re as thin as a nail, your hip frame like a sock hanger. I follow you around the house with bowls of finely sliced chicken breast that has been grilled in extra-virgin olive oil, placing them on the outdoor table, the sofa, our bed – anywhere that will predispose you to eat. I step on the scales with you several times a day, willing your numbers to tick up. I feel a failure when they don’t. 

As we enter week seven, I notice you’ve started sneezing and coughing again. I mention this when we bring you in on Wednesday. I’m told the blood tests show it’s safe to administer chemo. 

That evening, you go at the bowl of chicken like a whipbird pecking a eucalypt. You’ve always been a survivor. Only 12 months ago, you passed out while having blood drawn; your platelet count was non-existent, the cannula in your paw awaiting our call. You rallied,  surprising everyone except me. 

You’re up most of Friday night trying to find a comfortable position on the bed, the sound of your breathing like a faulty gearbox. You’ve barely eaten anything since Wednesday night. 

In the morning, we drive you across the Bridge. Maybe an antibiotic, something – anything – will pick you up. You are quiet on the back seat.  

The vet on duty takes you away for tests and reappears forty minutes later. You’ve relapsed. The cancer is everywhere. 

The hardest gift of love is the one I bestow on you now. 

*** 

I stow the surplus litter trays and pack up your medications for a pet charity. Evidence of you lingers – a sheathed claw on the sofa, a tumbleweed of fur on the floor, a whisker on the tablecloth. I tidy them away, thinking about the shredded scratch block near the fireplace, the vet receipts filed in Outlook, the identity tag in my bedside cupboard. I find a remnant of your wandering days at the back of my underwear drawer, a multicoloured elephant toy purloined from the daycare centre two doors up. You are not that easy to erase.

I think about what made you special. The vertical take offs – I swear your legs were  spring loaded. How slow you were to build trust and that you never gave it to the vacuum cleaner. The muffled drone of your swearing about things known only to you. That you were capable of deep affection. I didn’t think I’d miss you this much, Indy.

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