Elegy for a Cantankerous Cat

 

Pepe le Pew was a fighter, not a lover, and he fought until the very end. Pepe and his littermates were found in a paper sack by the side of the road. They were all so tiny that their eyes hadn’t yet opened. The woman who fostered them said that Pepe was the kitten that escaped the cat room to visit the dogs. He also managed to get into her painting studio and walk across a still-wet oil painting. When they were old enough to adopt, she brought them to a pet store that was close to the high school where two of my sons were attending. They saw him and begged for us to adopt him. Our calico had recently passed away, and the dog was lonely, so we did. When we got Pepe, he was not much larger than my hand. He was a tuxedo cat: black and white, but he had a stripe down his back that made him look like a baby skunk. He grew, but the stripe didn’t, and by the time he was full grown he didn’t look much like a skunk anymore, but he remained a stinker, so his name still fit. The woman who had fostered Pepe had three conditions for his adoption. The first was that we never declaw him. The condition of the piano bench and the thighs of my favorite pants testify that we kept this condition. We stopped keeping the second, that we feed him nothing but raw, natural food, when he hid away some chicken hearts among my husband’s socks – for the third time. The final condition, that he remain an indoor cat, proved impossible. Pepe was the world’s best as zipping between our legs whenever the door was open. He loved to get out, and when he was out, he loved to fight with any cat he came in contact with. He came home with puss-filled punctures, notched ears, and teeth through his lip more times than I cared to count. When we moved to the mountains, I feared that he’d meet a wilder set of neighbors and that he wouldn’t last long. He did stay in more often, but when we got a new dog, Pepe taught him how to use the dog door and then all bets were off. He managed to live another five years, and as far as I know, had only one encounter with wildlife: a tussle with a dive-bombing raven. Pepe’s fights were not exclusive to the outdoors. There are few people he met that he didn’t bite. He was the boss of two dogs. And usually, he was the boss of me and my husband. We had to hide the remotes when he learned that stomping on them would produce loud music that would get us out of bed to feed him his 3 am breakfast. We resorted to two different auto-feeders to keep him content. The in-town veterinarian had BITES in big, red letters across his file. In his last years there, the vet wouldn’t see him until he’d been sedated, which they did before even getting him out of his crate. The last three times he visited the vet, he pooped in his crate before he arrived, then rolled in it to make the visit even less pleasant for everyone. They finally gave him a three-year shot and suggested he not come back unless it was really necessary. The country vet we started using after we moved to the mountains seemed to be getting along a little better with Pepe, although some of that may be because I followed the in-town vet’s instructions and only brought him in for emergencies. Two years ago, he was bleeding from the mouth and I thought I’d have to put him down. The vet was able to determine that it was only an abscess under his chin. She cleaned him up and sent him on his way. ​ By this time, he had stopped grooming himself, which meant that his long fur was often matted. He hated being brushed. If the neighbors ever heart one of our brushing sessions, they would have assumed that I was scalping the cat, or pulling his nails out with pliers. I’ve got many scars from times I brushed Pepe. In later years, I pulled the mats apart with my fingers because he was less likely to bite me that way. Two weeks ago, he began drooling blood and losing teeth, but he was eating well and still had enough feisty in him to jump onto the counters. When he stopped eating, I took him to the vet. I wasn’t in the room when they tried to examine him, but apparently just getting him out of the crate was a major endeavor. Once they had him out, he refused to be examined. Finally, they had to sedate him to look at him. When they finally got to examine him, it was apparent that this time, he couldn’t be cleaned up and sent home. Pepe had developed bone cancer, and his jaw had grown thin and finally snapped. It was 7:30 at night when the vet called and gave me the news. She suggested they keep Pepe overnight, then put him down on Saturday, so I could come and say goodbye. I thought he’d be miserable all night, alone and away from home, so I asked her to put him down that evening. He had been through enough already. He was 17 1/2.  ​Pepe was a beautiful cat. He was a smart cat. But he was no lover. In his last few years he finally would sit in our laps while we read, but it was a long time coming. I don’t think we ever tamed Pepe, but he clawed his way into our hearts, and we’re going to miss him terribly.