Duncan the Cat (1998-2010)

I'd like to tell you about my cat.

Don't worry; it won't be all that depressing.

You see, Duncan had a good life. A life of twelve wonderful years.

I got him when he was a kitten and my mom had promised me a dog. I wanted to christen him "Horrendous" since he was a mixed breed.

God, I thought, I couldn't even get a showcase cat.

Then on the way back home, he tried sitting on my brother's lap. My brother freaked, jumped up, and I grabbed the cat.

From that point on, we were inseparable.

We drove past a Dunkin Donuts, and I renamed him "Duncan."

He was so small he used to be able to hide anywhere. One time he spent an entire day in a tiny space behind my bed until we heard him meowing.

Duncan would fall asleep curled up next to me, or (his actual favorite sleeping place) directing on my forehead.

I can't tell you how many times I woke up and thought I had died in my sleep and gone to some weird, furry heaven.

That was Duncan.

About a year into his life, he became a fat cat, and would remain so until about a week ago.

He would waddle everywhere, his belly swishing back and forth. Yet he could still prowl. One time he caught a fly in mid-air. It was a proud moment for the entire family. Our little obese leopard could still hunt.

Admittedly, a fat cat is harder to deal with at times than a kitten. While I would work on my homework on the downstairs computer, Duncan would sprawl across the keyboard wanting attention, and there was no playfully shoving him off. You would have to lift him up, put him around your shoulders like a fur coat, and walk him around the room like you were at a charity ball.

This was the only way to appease him for an hour or so.

When we got Peaches, our dog, I could tell Duncan felt a little betrayed. Hadn't he been a good cat? Hadn't he been laid back and easy-going? Had he ever scratched or bit anyone? Had he ever even hissed?

And here we were introducing a manic, hyper hot dog into his life.

At times, I wasn't sure he would forgive us, but he did.

When my Mom and I came home tonight without him, Peaches looked at us and whimpered.

I think that was one of the many times tonight my heart broke.

He'd been getting skinnier and skinnier just in the past week, and tonight we brought him to an all-night hospital where they told us he had kidney failure.

There were a lot of options, but all of them led to him having a depreciated quality of life that would (maybe) last another year before we'd be facing the same decision:

Whether or not to put him down.

I knew we had to do it, but when they brought him in the room, he looked so young again. Like that little kitten we brought home from the shelter.

I kept thinking--He trusts us. We're his family. How can we do this?

But I knew it was the right thing to do.

Since I moved out of my house, he's slept next to my brother, Ryan, every night. He periodically would go around to every bedroom during the night and check on each of us.

I wanted a Saint Bernard that day back in 1998 when I came home with a six-week-old kitten, but in some strange way, I feel like I got my Saint Bernard anyway.

I'm going to miss his little ears.
I'm going to miss holding him like a big fat baby.
I'm going to miss having a cat.

He was a good cat; he really was.

I know, I promised this wouldn't be depressing, and it shouldn't be.

Twelve years is a long time to be lucky, and every day I had him, I was lucky.

I'll miss you, Duncan. You were a real showcase cat after all.