You know you are doing the right thing for Henry, but it still feels like you should not be the one to decide and the second you do, a weight descends on your chest almost like you can’t breathe. You look at your boy, who was a wandering feral kitten 14 years ago that you rescued, running out of your house throughout the night barely dressed to catch him as he meowed in a screeching panicky way until at last you were successful a little after 4 a.m. He bit you as you quickly grabbed him sitting—finally—in full view under the streetlight, shivering down there looking at you, scared, but willing to take a chance at anything else.
You fed him, bathed him, took him to the vet. You convinced your spouse to accept the fact that the cat is staying and his name is Henry, a name that came to you instantly, like you were struck by a shooting star.
It took him growing up from five weeks old—more or less, you were guessing—to stop hiding in the box springs mattress through a hole he clawed his way through when guests came over, to be brave enough to come out and say hello. This went on until a complete sense of safety and trust took him over and then he became the peacemaker and friend to all. He jumped on the table when you were typing, walked across the keyboard and you shooed him away. He slept by your feet as you worked, he stole your flip flops (just one) sending you all over the house looking for the missing one the next morning. He loved sleeping on anything you had worn. He loved sleeping on your pillows and right next to you.
He never hissed, he never scratched. It was not his nature. You always felt he was a bit of a lost boy who never really knew how he ended up where he did. You knew nothing about him except that he was abandoned on the street, alone, and was too tiny to care for himself. He needed lessons he never got. He never learned to climb a fence and so you never worried he’d climb up and wander out of the courtyard if you let him out. Instead he would find a comfy place, snuggle and fall asleep. Then wait at the door to come back in. He did not like doors that closed behind him, ever.
You figured all of the shots prescribed by the vet weren’t necessary for your boy who didn’t fight, didn’t threatened, and didn’t go looking for mischief. So you said no to them all. You bathed him weekly during the summer months when fleas were abundant, you crushed pumpkin seeds that you added to his food to get rid of parasites when the litter box beckoned.
He was your best buddy and needed nothing but to be near you.
And now, you stand above him on the silver table, having to make the decision you know you have to make that will take him out of his suffering because there is nothing more you can do but release him from this pain and fear he is feeling. It is the heaviest moment to decide to end a life. And then when it is about to happen, you insist you will not leave his side. It is the hardest experience but one you could not possibly not do. You had to be there for him so he knew you were there. You whispered things only he would find comforting, his nickname, the things you would always say to him, you’d tell him you love him and that you will see him again. And still, you feel like you are making the call you wish he could do for himself, but you know he can’t.
Afterward, it is quieter in your house and his absence is so present. You miss him, you feel the confusion of it all of how it is that you can spend his entire lifetime taking care of him, making sure he had everything he needed, along with the last need that is the hardest to fulfill and seems to contradict everything else you did to keep him healthy and safe.
This process will never get easier. So long for now, Mancini, never don’t forget me.
—Sketch
letters from sketch 