Clyde

There are many parts to the silent covenant that is agreed to when a pet and an owner bond.

The owner agrees to love, feed, groom, clean, care, entertain and indulge.

The pet agrees to accept.

In actuality, the pet reciprocates in ways large and small. He's there to amaze with tricks, endure one-sided conversations, demand attention at the most inopportune times and always look at his owner enduringly no matter the owner's mood or worthiness.

Life's demands can make bad pet owners out of the best of us. Recently, Clyde the cat had taken to climbing up on my lap and situating his big, hairy beast body between me and my omnipresent laptop.

He would look at me adoringly with those big green eyes, rumble his 2000 decibel purr and demand my attention.

Even if I was annoyed, how could I resist?

In our relationship, Clyde actually picked me.

Mary and I had visited the Brevard County Animal Shelter during Adopt-A-Cat Week in June 2007. That place was a mess: It smelled, it was noisy and most of the animals had some sort of kennel cough.

We had been through the aisles a few times before I spied Clyde in his cage. He was a brown-striped Maine Coon, which was exactly what we were looking for. He was a bargain at $29.

I picked him up from the cage and he dug into my chest, burrowed into me and clung tight. At that precise moment, a loud dog barked and I could feel him tighten. He looked up at me as if to say, "Pay them the $29. Get me the hell out of here. Leave me in the bushes out front, I do not care. Just get me out of this place."

The shelter folks told us they thought Clyde was 2 years old. Our vet later confirmed he was probably closer to six months old. We first bonded in the guest bathroom where he spent much of his first month, quarantined from Louis J. Cat, first because of a bad cold, then because of conjunctivitis, then because he had passed his bad cold and conjunctivitis to Louie as they sniffed and pawed each other under the bathroom door

Our $29 adoption ended up costing us $1,000 between the two cats.

But in that bathroom, Clyde was king. It was much bigger than the cage. He had a lot of new toys. He loved the running water. Really, is a weird way, he was very content. Then, when we we turned him loose into the totality of our Florida condo, Clyde thought he was king of the world.

Such a loving cat. He was a non-stop purring wonder. Even when he acted up – roughhousing too much or annoying his brothers Louie or Sammy – when you yelled at him and approached him, he would immediately fall prone into a submissive position and then purr. All 2000 decibels.

He enjoyed life. Clyde loved to patrol the house, loved to watch birds and squirrels from his various perches, loved chasing treats. When Mary got the grooming brush out, he was in heaven.

Our cats trained us to observe and respect "Treat Time." When I came home from work, the cats would wait for me to change and then follow me downstairs and line up for the treat ceremony which always began with me asking "Who was the best kitty of the day?" Clyde would also get up on two legs, put his front paws on my knee as if to say "Me!"

Every night. Without fail.

This was life as we knew it through last Tuesday. On Wednesday, Clyde seemed off. He didn't finish his treats during the second "Treat Time," the nightly toll I paid to go to bed. I couldn't sleep and went looking for him in the middle of the night and found him sitting on the carpet in the basement. I picked him up and he just wanted down and to be left alone.

Very un-Clyde-like.

I got home from work Thursday night and he was hiding in the sub basement. I could tell he was either in a lot of pain or having trouble breathing. I rushed him to the after-hours animal hospital and they told me, "You got him here just in time. We had to put him on oxygen."

From that moment, normal ceased to exist.

They removed 300cc's of liquid from his chest cavity; liquid that threatened to suffocate him. Another vet visit and more tests came Friday. We were promised results Saturday that never came and Clyde spent the weekend on the bedroom floor. Drinking, but not eating. Listless.

The change from just days before was and remains impossible to for us to comprehend. The once-healthy, active Clyde now was content to lay on the floor and sleep. And purr.

To say we were unprepared for this turn of events is to belabor the obvious. We are not cat novices. Thurber the cat lived to 20. The beloved Ditka made 19. Even 'Tude with the bad heart made it to lucky 13.

Clyde is barely 5.

The call came Monday morning and I made a token effort to complain to the vet that we would have appreciated a call Saturday, if only to say the results were not back yet. In truth, in the quiet of the night as I type the truth and brush back a few tears, he could have kept his damned, inevitable truth for a few more days.

The truth is that Clyde suffers from a lymphoma. It's affecting the chest area and has infected his lymph nodes.

Cancer. How common is it for a 5-year-old cat to have cancer, I asked.

"It's almost unheard of," the doctor said, clear resignation in his voice. He listed the obligatory medical calculations: Akron specialists, chemo, a chest tube. In any case, we are talking days or months. And, no matter the choice, all that lies ahead are pain and confusion for a cat who's only life expectations are to watch birds, chase treats and wrestle with his brother Sammy.

We had all planned for him to do that for another decade or so …

So, the other part of that covenant – the part I purposely did not mention at the top – sweeps upon us at this moment. As pet owners we also agree that when a beloved pet gets to this point, that no matter the selfish interest in keeping them at our side, that we agree to help them face the end in the most humane and respectful way possible.

That's far easier to type than it is to face. This is killing us. But we cannot allow Clyde to suffer much more. And so Mary and I sit together and we cry and we curse the unfairness. And we laugh at the stories and we are grateful for the pure joy that Clyde brought to our home.

And we know what we must do.

To be continued…


Mark