Yeti and Me

Yeti: 1992–2009

Ivonne summed up Yeti better than I could, in a single sentence: Yeti was all about love. He greeted every visitor, remembered them, had the loudest purr of any cat I've ever known (as a vet tech once said, "He has a good motor"). Visitors who didn't love, or at least tolerate, cats, were not welcome in my house.

He could also hug you with his arms, and squeeze your finger with his paw.

He was my best buddy for nearly eighteen years. Every morning, I would awaken and walk down two flights of stairs to make my coffee, toast my bagel, and fetch my newspaper. Every morning for many years he would beat me to the first floor. The one time I beat him he went to the vet within the hour.

He always knew when I was feeling poorly, such as during the eight months I spent in a hospital bed and wheelchair with round-the-clock nursing as the result of a motorcycle accident. He was nearly always beside me on the bed, touching. He had to give up his usual duties for the duration.

Yeti had many duties. One involved periodic inspection of kitchen and bathroom cabinets. He would point his nose at one of interest and stand completely still until I opened the door so that he could go in, look for deficiencies (or mice) and correct them.

The yard was his outside territory. He like to go out after breakfast, when I would fetch my newspaper, and circle the property, looking for interloping cats, rodents, or anything else of interest. When I would call him, he always came running. Sometimes he would stay out all day and roam quite far, but he was always home at 4:30 sharp because he had an internal, self-adjusting, infallible kitty watch. It usually took him but one day to adjust to daylight savings time.

I fed him at precisely at 4:30 (that way, I knew he would always be home before dark). Even last week, if you didn't know where he was or what time it was, at 4:30 he would find you, have dinner (always meat) and take a nap. (He preferred raw meat, which required excursions to an expensive, magnificent meat market.)

Yeti was a pedigreed cream-point Himalayan. Say what you will about purebreds, they have a LOT of personality. I loved him beyond all reason. Every day of his life I cleaned around his eyes and nose (Himalayans, with their pushed-in noses, usually collect crud around their eyes). At first he didn't like my doing it, but later decided that my cleanings were a kind of love, so he purred and didn't object. I believe that he felt that no matter what annoying or painful thing I had to do to him (like give him a bath), it was because it needed doing. Amazingly, he was completely immune to fleas. Cats don't get better than that.

At one point, I hoped, with my weak knees, I would die before he did. I couldn't face the the possibility of losing him.

These last two years have been hard. He developed arthritis in his rear hip joint, which caused him to slowly lose feeling and control of his hind legs. One by one he had to give up things he had done for years, like going outside. I remember the last time he successfully jumped up on my bed, and the last time he tried (and failed). He lost most of his hearing. I remember when he stopped being the lion king who ruled over his two young female kittens (also Himalayans). It became harder and harder for him to balance on his hind legs, although only last week he made his last trip up the stairs to sit in my lap, purr, hug my arm, and have his eyes cleaned.

He wasn't suffering pain: he was losing hind-leg sensation. For the last few weeks he had difficulty climbing over the low-ridged catbox and had accidents in the laundry room. But he was still there, still my Yeti.

But not last Monday. I don't think he could stand at all. For the first time I saw suffering; not of the pain kind but of bitter frustration of loss. He had been reduced to doing circles trying to gain enough leverage to stand but couldn't.

It wasn't the best of times for me, either. My cancer numbers were rocketing dangerously out of control, I had no food and plenty of clear slop to drink for the day prior to my endo/colonoscopy Tuesday morning, was flying on steroids, and was scheduled to start Arsenic on Tuesday afternoon (not an easy course of treatment to accept). But I awoke at 2am Tuesday knowing that Yeti's time had come. I asked whatever gods may be for one more day, one more rally, because I was at the end of my rope. I wanted one last day to hold him, clean his eyes, and listen to him purr. It was not to be.

One glance as I flew out the door to go to the hospital confirmed everything. I couldn't think about that. I had to go. When I finally game home, he was in a coma. Ivonne wrapped him in towels and brought him to me. I spent more an hour holding him. I gave him couple of syringes of water, but there was no reaction. His eyes reacted to light, but I don't think he actually woke up. Maybe the vet could rehydrate him and bring him back, but he had nothing left, really, to come back for.

I have no words for how difficult it was for me to accept what I had to do, especially considering how weak I was. But I took him to the vet and asked her to help Yeti pass over. He died in my arms, never regaining consciousness. Later this week he'll come back to me in a cedar box. I intend that he shall share mine, when the time comes.

I grieve for me, too, selfishly. Over the years, like Yeti, the cancer has forced me to give up so many of my routines and duties, starting with my career eleven years ago. Only last year I was weight lifting at the gym two or three times a week. Emotionally, I haven't given that up, although physically I haven't been to the gym this year. I gave up most chores. I hire people to do work around the house I would have previously taken pride in doing myself.

The amazing thing, the most improbable and clearly miraculous thing that has ever happened to me, was finding and falling in love with Ivonne. The chances, given my situation, of such luck, were vanishingly small. Our love makes up for so much that I have had lost!

Still, I gave up most concerts and movies (now Ivonne and I watch Blu-ray DVDs with 7.1 audio instead on a magnificent 62" screen); ditto fancy restaurants; most dinner invitations. Lately, I haven't had enough energy to work on the serious piano pieces I studied intensely earlier in the year (e.g., Brahms Gmin Rhapsody, Op. 79, #2). I spend too much time in bed, reading. I don't cook as often or cook things requiring a lot of time in the kitchen. I don't shave or bathe often enough.

I did manage the two biggest projects since my retirement from work in 1998: the wedding, and managing the amazingly complicated and expensive process of making my bride, Ivonne, a permanent resident of the United States. It took three months of complicated study and ended up as five petitions, two-sided, plus supporting documentation one and one-quarter inch thick. Someday I'll write about it because it's a process, if you are unfamiliar with it, as hateful and adversarial as you can possibly imagine. Welcome to America!

In the end, I think I was grieving for both our losses, Yeti's and mine. Having to give up big chunks of our lives was bad enough, but at least his final decline was quite rapid and seemingly painless: will mine be as well?

Bye for Now