Let me tell you about my cat
His name is Beren but like all animals we bring into our lives, he also has a number of names we actually call him including Bubs, Buhbuh, Bearbear, Bubbabear, Stinky Old Maurice, Little Smythe, the Kingpin of Crime, and many more.
The first thing you should know about my cat is that he had a hard life. When he came to us just over three years ago now, he’d been rescued by Cats Protection after being a little bit feral and a stray for an estimated 7-8 years, though possibly longer. He went through two operations with them before he was considered fit to be released into our care, and when I tell you I fell in love with him immediately upon seeing his photograph in my emails, know I am not exaggerating. He was perfect, massive, giant paws and tiny ears and a little pink nose. Cats Protection had named him Archie, which we loved, but we felt he needed something that declared him officially home after being alone for so many years, so Beren (of Beren and Lúthien fame) was chosen. Archie was always his second name - so if he was naughty it was part of the full name of doom used.
We brought him home on the 13th October 2019. He spent all of an hour hiding in our bedroom before deciding, “Fuck this,” and came out to explore. He swaggered into our living room with all the power and prowess that only a feline can master, and showcased his enormous personality in that one move. His confidence in himself was outstanding, I like to think he knew my partner and I were on his team from the get go. We had a bit of a shaky start. He was FIV+ and we had a health scare pretty immediately, but after that things settled and he grew more and more into himself, immediately taking over every soft blanket I owned and showing clear disrespect to my work, as per cat protocol. He also developed an addiction to vegan butter - not that he was allowed it, but my god did he want it.
Due to his FIV, he also had chronically gunky ears which I cleaned out frequently for him, as well as an occasional gunky nose which I also would clean. His condition meant special attention for some things, and I was more than happy to give it to him. Every day, we would go through our routine of a tip to tail check, ensuring he was all ok and raring to go.
Bear also loves Dreamies, and lick-e-licks. That was actually how I managed to train him to wear his harness. If there was ever a cat that was going to be Adventure Cat, I knew it was Bubs with the right motivation. Bear didn’t suffer fools though, and he would let us know with a sigh and an expression that spoke volumes when he felt we were being too silly and ridiculous for his sophisticated tastes.
He is also the most ridiculously soft. His fur is long, a little wavy under the legs, and when he gets a brush the drool and purring is enough to shake the flat we live in, though sometimes he can be a bit feisty, and doesn’t want the belly brush he usually tolerates. As far as Murder(TM) goes, his favourite toy is a piece of red string. He has many, but that was the one the kept coming back to. His green ball - an old stress ball I had from some giveaway student stall thing from my uni days, was his favourite thing to whack and chase for a while before it started falling apart, so I got him some catnip donuts that look straight out of The Simpsons. You know the ones.
When we moved to the coast, Bubs finally had more than two rooms and a corridor to noom around in, and he made use of it, rushing through the whole flat to chase his balls, donuts, or whatever else he fancied. He also was fascinated by the vent behind the tv, and started a mischievous campaign to get back there to investigate it, even though he knew he wasn’t allowed, and would act the innocent martyr upon either discovery or having his plans thwarted. And that’s the other thing too. Apparently surviving for most of a decade in the Wilds of Surrey is a good way to create ridiculous street smarts and general cleverness in a cat, because Bear’s brain is one of those brains that constantly was coming up with shenanigans, schemes, and crimes. He would look at you with those big yellow eyes, and you would just know he was plotting. Honestly, the fact that he loves to cuddle and sleep so much is probably our saving grace.
He likes to follow me into my studio, earning him the title of Studio Manager, or more accurately, “Boss.” He also fancies himself something of my flexibility coach, making his presence obvious any time I’m trying to exercise or stretch. One of his even funnier quirks was never letting me go to the bathroom alone, as if the walk between living room and toilet was too much of a distance without a chaperone. He was that chaperone.
When we brought the Stinky Bear home, C and I decided that we were going to give him the best retirement. He would have two permanent butlers working to spoil him, and we did just that. In summery days he had his big pillows where he would lie and follow the sun like a flower, the light catching his black fur in such a way it made it look Guinness red. In colder times, he had all the blankets he wanted, all the soft things and human-hot-water-bottles he could have asked for.
On Thursday the 17th November I took him to the vet. My partner was away for a few days. I won’t go into the details of why I took him but I did. The first vet we saw was… hm. But he said Bear had an infection that would clear right up with antibiotics. But I knew.
I have always known death. I have always seen it coming before everyone else, yet when the vet said it was just an infection I swallowed what I already knew was coming in sheer hope. I let myself believe that he was going to be ok, and even told my partner on the phone, “I thought Bear was dying but the vet says it’s just an infection and he’s going to be ok.”
Over the week Bear got more poorly. My partner finished his trip, and on Thursday 24th November we brought him back to the vet. This time, the vet was a different person who was wonderful and gentle with him. She told us the prognosis wasn’t good, but we would try getting him fluids overnight to see if he could bounce back.
At 9pm I got a call. Bubs had deteriorated significantly. We drove down there and when I saw him, I knew that it would be cruel to ask him to fight on. He died in my arms with kisses and cuddles, knowing he was loved. He went quickly and peacefully. I think he was waiting on us. When I held him, he tried to purr.
Bear was so incredibly special. It’s hard to overstate the impact he had on my life, and my partner’s life. We built our routines around him. 7am, Bear’s breakfast. 5pm, Bear’s dinner. 8:30pm, Bear’s snack. Each time, his alarm would go, alerting his food motivated brain that it was time to eat. Alarm training him stopped his food anxiety because he knew that sound meant food. It also meant we built and framed our days around what was best for Bubs.
Being FIV+ meant he was immunocompromised. He was indoors only, as I feel all cats should be unless they are being supervised, but this was also to keep him safe from illness. FIV unfortunately also comes with increased chances of other illness, including lymphoma. In the end, this is what got him. He had renal lymphoma with enlarged kidneys, one of which had entirely stopped working. We also discovered that Bear had likely broken his back at some point during his feral days. His thoracic spine was completely fused together, along with some parts of the lumbar spine - the vet was shocked he was as limber as he was having checked his range of motion and so on when we admitted him.
Still. Even with this pain, even with the short time we had with him, I would take him home all over again. I would feel this devastation all over again. Because he deserved it. He was worth it. And all FIV+, disabled, or ill cats (and animals in general) also deserve to be loved, to have homes where they are safe, warm, fed, and cared for.
Now, I mourn him. I am grieving the loss of him, his huge presence, the sound of his feet on the carpet or the tiles. His little quirks, noises, and smells. The softness of his fur on my face. This past week has emptied me out, and as of yet there is nothing to put back in except memories of all of the precious moments we had.
Love your animals. If you can, adopt FIV+ cats. They are worth it. But for now, please indulge me telling you about mine.
