FIRST PERSON
farm, more than 30 miles away.
The kitten’s owner told us that he was just one of many barn cats for which her children had developed a fondness. The kids had let him out of the barn, and he apparently took refuge from the elements under her car.
A few days later, during another break, we discovered that the kitten had again abandoned his barn home and returned to our workplace under the car. He must have enjoyed being the center of attention earlier in the week.
This time, instead of taking him home, the kitten’s owner offered him to me. I took him home reluctantly, as our family already had a cat — who turned out to be less than pleased with the new addition to the family.
Tweak — so named by our son because of the small, sudden movements the cat often made quickly settled in. When he first arrived, we had one grandchild; during the 17 years he was with us, we were blessed with eight more.
All the grandchildren played with, loved and adored Tweak while growing up. He rarely ventured outside, preferring to stay inside where the action was, perhaps remembering barn life and realizing that he now had it made.
On Easter Sunday in 2014, my husband and I were given a small black puppy we named Fudge (after a favorite book character). Our older cat had passed away, so Tweak now had another playmate.
The cat and dog spent the past three years playing together, chasing one another and competing for the best spot on the back of the sofa — for a prime view out the front window. They shared toys, food, treats, water, and favorite sleeping areas — with one exception.
Tweak had recently laid claim to an old birthday gift to a granddaughter: a pinkand-purple princess castle, complete with door and windows. He was spending most of his time there, stretching, sleeping and being “king” of his castle. Fudge knew better than to enter Tweak’s domain. Whenever the grandchildren visited, they knew where to find him.
Last spring, Tweak started struggling to walk and keep his balance. Late one Saturday afternoon, he became disoriented and couldn’t stand up. With our veterinarian not at work, we took the cat to a nearby emergency facility, where a vet diagnosed vestibular disease. We brought Tweak home with some medicine until we could take him to our regular vet for a followup. After all of that expense, we affectionately started referring to Tweak as our “$400 cat.”
All was well until December, just two days before Christmas, when Tweak had a similar bad spell. I was sure that, this time, we would have to let him go. Our vet said no, that it was too close to Christmas. She didn’t think the time was right for such a decision.
She gave Tweak another injection to help him move, if temporarily. Somehow, though, he was able to hobble around the house for three more months.
When he could no longer climb into his litter box, we invested a small fortune in puppy pads. By the end of March, however, Tweak was suffering more noticeably and failing. He could no longer walk and, when he tried, would fall over onto a side. He woke us up during the night, meowing in pain.
Not wanting to prolong his suffering, we called the vet again. I spent his final two days at home with him. He wanted me only to sit and hold him face-up like a baby, wrapped in his favorite blanket. Even as he lay dying, Tweak never stopped purring his approval.
I won’t forget the day he left us, wrapped in that blanket in my arms; his big, trusting eyes looking up at me; and still purring until he took his last breath — one of the most agonizing moments of my life.
I have given away Tweak’s food and litter but haven’t had the heart to get rid of his food bowls — and his “kingdom” remains in the playroom.
When I am ready, I will take it down, for it is no longer needed.
The grandchildren have grown up, and the king has surrendered his castle.
— All the grandchildren played with, loved and adored Tweak while growing up.