It's early Thursday afternoon. One more class for the week, one more paper to write. The house needs cleaning, the grass is dying, and the neighbors have started to complain about the three construction size dumpsters parked in our driveway for the last month. I begin to count hours till the end of the day, days to the weekend and then weeks and months. One thing at a time, I think. Just as I'm dragging the vacuum cleaner out of the hall closet I hear chanting coming from the kitchen. My husband, Scott, is lying on the kitchen floor. "I love you, you'll be okay," he repeats over and over. He's curled around Toad who hasn't moved from this spot in the kitchen since Tuesday. She can no longer lift her head and her breathing is ragged and labored. This spot, where the hot water pipes warm the cold hard tiles, is where she chooses to come when she feels ill. She's spent most of the last ten months in this spot, just out of kitchen traffic.
I leave the vacuum cleaner and watch for a few minutes, suppressing the urge to apologize for the floor not being clean. Then I join them. Scott is gently caressing Toad's back, running his finger down her protruding spine, rubbing the spot between her eyes on her smushed in face - the Persian sinus rub we call it. Usually this rub elicits a reaction, either a soft throaty purr or reciprocating pressure applied against the rubber's finger, an appreciation of a deep, frustrating ache finally being soothed, an itch finally scratched. Today, however, our little cat is quiet and still. During the past 24 hours large lumps have appeared above her left eye and on the side of her neck. Her head moves occasionally, as if she's trying to find a more comfortable place to rest her chin, an escape from the swelling and pressure.
"It looks like she was mugged. Who mugged you, Neema?" Scott asks. He has nicknames for all our animals. Neema is short for Neem-a-tode which isn't Toad's name at all, just another nickname. "Maybe she'd like to sit by the bathroom door." Toad's favorite spot is next to a pair of sliding glass doors in our master bathroom, overlooking a now barren orchid tree.
As gently as I can, I gather Toad into my arms. Her stomach and tail are wet and at first I search the floor for a previously unnoticed spill. Then I realize its not water; meticulous little Toad, who would never consider soiling anything outside the cat box is soaked in urine. I carry her to our bathroom and place her on her back in the sink. My arms support her neck and head as though she's an infant. She relaxes her body into the curve of the sink and melds against my arm and I adjust the flow of water so it's warm and gentle against her belly and legs. Toad has always loved watching water, but, like most cats struggles against a full-on bath or shower. Today her body is limp with acceptance.
Scott comes into the bathroom and hands me a towel and I swaddle Toad's tiny body before lifting her to my chest. Even wet she weighs no more than a few pounds.
I take her to our bed and we lay down. "You don't want to put her next to the door?" Scott asks.
"I guess I just want to hold her for a while." I reply. "At least till she's dry."
Scott lies down next to us on the bed. "Tell me the story of Toad," he says.
It's a story that's woven into the essence of our relationship, like the birth of a child, one of the joys and anguishes that become an integral part of every family. Each time it's told, it starts with Toad's arrival at our house as a kitten, her naming ceremony, and then continues with the "remember when's..." or "how about that time..." which are so vital to our family history.
This time I begin with the story of Toad's journey from her Santa Ynez birthplace to our house on a day when I was supposed to be working. Before I get to the part where Toad walked into our home, stood in the middle of the kitchen and opened her mouth to proclaim, "this is my house, I'm in charge," Scott interrupts.
"Do you remember when the dogs were chasing her down the stairs?" This is Scott's favorite story and, as the true cat-a-holic in a family that owns dogs, cats, horses and mules, this story reaffirms his belief that cats, in particular our Toad, are superior not only as pets but as animal species in general. The story begins with Milo and Annie, our two Saint Bernard puppies chasing Toad around the upstairs bedroom. The trio heads for the stairs, the puppies in pursuit. At the bottom Toad makes a quick u-turn and runs back up the stairs, leaving two clumsy, floppy puppies running in confused circles.
"You could see her thinking, planning," Scott says. "She knew before she started for the stairs that her best escape would be to mentally confuse the dogs."
Each of us, me, Scott, the kids, even my mother-in-law, have our favorite Toad story.
Toad hanging upside down on the lip of the kitchen sink to drink from the faucet and then nudging the faucet handle down until she turns the water off.
Toad frantically scratching at the upstairs water heater closet door, trying to tell her stupid humans there's leak inside. Three days later we find that leak when we discovered water dripping through a downstairs light fixture.
Toad, sleeping on my pillow next to my husband on those nights when the anxieties of my life keep me out of bed and wandering the house. My husband always claims he slept soundest when Toad was next to him, purring.
Toad watching news coverage of 9/11 intently, leaving only during commercials to use the cat box or grab a mouthful of dry kibble. It was around this time we decided Toad had lived her previous life as the Ayatollah Khomeini. Her punishment for evil deeds was her rebirth as a female cat living with a Jewish family.
Toad, the only cat in the family who allows my son to come anywhere near her. The minute he walks into a room, the other two cats hide. But Toad realizes that resistance takes more effort than compliance, and relaxes into Alex's neck as he lowers her over his head. "Mom, look what just sprouted on my neck," he crows gleefully as he models his new fur coat. The coat was always a perfect fit until earlier this year when Alex grew almost a foot and Toad's illness thinned her chocolate colored coat and emaciated her petite body,
"Do you remember when Toad came to get you when I fell off the ladder?" My husband asks. We're still on the bed, Toad hasn't moved from my chest. Scott is telling his second favorite Toad story. "You couldn't hear me calling for help"
"Toad jumped on the bed while I was trying to change the sheets and started digging," I take over the story. "Remember when she finally got me to follow her out to the kitchen and you were on the floor, moaning with pain. Your blasting stereo drowned out your voice." Usually I end the story by reminding Scott that he is his own worst enemy but he has begun doing the Persian sinus rub between Toad's eyes and she seems to have settled a little more comfortably against my chest.
"Do you remember when Toad came to get me in the middle of the night?" I ask. This story is my favorite.
My mother had liver cancer and decided to spend her last few weeks at our home. Several nights before my mother died, Toad came upstairs to our bedroom and began a frantic dance at the foot of the bed. Thinking she had been locked away from her cat box, I got up and followed her downstairs. She passed the open bathroom door, the place where we kept her cat box, and stopped just inside the guest bedroom. There, I found my mother entangled in her hospital bed, too weak to call for help, making soft moaning sounds. Without Toad's vigilance, I wouldn't have found my mom until morning.
*****
Friday morning and Toad is still no better. Scott and I, in that unspoken communication that occurs between people who have spent years together, agree that her visit to the vet this morning will be her last. I leave for class and Scott spends time doing everything he can to avoid taking Toad. Finally, when there is no more time, he carries her to his car.
I watch the clock in the classroom. The vet appointment is for 8:45. I think about feline miracle cures and magic potions. At the 10:30 class break I call Scott. He's been crying. He struggles to compose his voice. He tells me how he sat in the vet's office, holding her, stroking her, rocking her, waiting for the right moment.
"I couldn't let her go. But she couldn't move, could barely breathe. Finally, I knelt on the floor next to the metal examining table and put my mouth to her ear and asked her to let me know if it was okay. She started purring and then I knew it was time for the final story of Toad."