Saying goodbye to our cat, James the Magnificent

Just about eight and a half years ago Bill and I were outside at the fire pit under the stars. We heard a kitten crying down by the barn and thought, “Oh no, one of the house cats got out.” We have a family of coyotes that has lived on these five acres longer than we have, and the White family has been here more than 50 years. I ran towards the barn as the crying got louder and louder. I bent over because it was so dark, but I could not see exactly what was sounding so pitiful until a fuzzy little solid black kitten, about two months old with bright green eyes, jumped into my hand. This was no lost house cat; he was all alone and needing company.

We brought him up on the porch and offered him dry food. He could bite and eat it, so he was not part of a new litter. I brought him right in the house, and put him in the back bathroom with a towel, litter box and water. He stayed. I named him James because he reminded me of my favorite cousin and appeared to read books over my shoulder. Cousin James was also an avid reader. James the cat did not stay small for long. He took over the house, lording it over the two other cats and slept on our bed with the 72pound dog, Fancy. James liked dogs and terrified cats.

Over time, let’s just say James filled out. He was the cat they wrote Garfield about in the comics. If you tried reading the paper and James wanted attention (and he always did) you put the paper down, or he tore it to shreds.

Now why, you might ask yourself, would two fairly intelligent people allow a cat, James, to take over their lives; walk on the kitchen table, tear up two antique chairs, and bully all the other animals? He made Cousin Joe, whose father I named the cat after, so afraid to come into the house that we had to provide a written document that James was locked up while Little Joe visited.

James was remarkable, and I say “was” because two weeks ago, I heard terrible crying coming from James at the bottom of the stairs. His buddy, Piwacket, also solid black, was sitting next to him looking distressed. James’ back legs were paralyzed. He was in terrible pain. Bill wrapped him in a towel, and I went out to drive and call Western Trails, our vet. It was a scene from a bad horror movie. I dropped the cell phone between the seats while I was trying to speak to the doctor. James tore at Bill with his front paws and both his arms were bleeding. I have never been so frightened and sad for an animal in such pain.

It was pouring down rain when we reached the vet, where they took us right in even though it was 5:45. There was nothing to do. James was given a shot for cats 25 pounds, but it did not stop the pain so the dedicated vet, Doctor Thornton, gave him one for cats that were 32 pounds, and he had some relief as they took him back. We loved him so much we did what had to be done, and with loving hands, James had a final anesthetic. We got to say goodbye; I sang him the Baby, Baby song for the last time, and James was out of pain in seconds.

If you don’t have pets, cats or dogs, or whatever you chose, you can’t imagine how a little fluffy ball can make your life better. The day is long, the people you try to teach or help are not always kind to you (or one another), and you come into the house to be hit in the chest by a tiny panther with green eyes. He rubs his head against your chin and bites you. Now that is love, because you only have to hug him back.

Time for confession.

A few months ago, we had some sneaky little mice that tried to take over Casa Blanca. James the Magnificent came to the rescue: Three little dead bodies were in the kitchen. I didn’t think he had it in him, but I slept better knowing there was a warrior cat here to protect us. Be at peace, James, over the rainbow, where all pets go to wait for us to arrive. Can you read this over my tears? Sad Mouse, out.