I wrote this tribute for my cat, Cosmo. He was the best. COSMO I saw him on a hot, sultry, August day--a thin, wary, fully-grown cat, his orange form cautiously emerging from the woods behind my house. When he glimpsed me, he scurried back into the thicket. I put some cat food on the carport, and then watched from a window inside my home. He approached the food (almost in a tip-toe) and devoured it. After several days of this routine, he stopped racing back into the woods when he finished eating. He began to saunter, looking back over his shoulder periodically as if to check on things. He soon tolerated my presence--sitting a few feet away--while he ate. Before long, he lingered after his meal--just sitting with me for a while, yet not allowing me to touch him. One day, I saw him lounging on the edge of the woods--the place from where he first emerged. I sat down on the ground some distance from him. We visited for several minutes before he had to go. These meetings happened daily and each time we met up, I moved a little closer. Soon, I extended my hand. He watched. The day finally came when he extended his front paw in the direction of my hand. I inched my fingers closer, closer, closer. I thought of Michelangelos fresco adorning the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel depicting, The Creation of Adam, showing the hands of God and Adam with their fingers extended, almost touching. When we made contact, I knew this scruffy cat and I belonged together. I named him Cosmo. Cosmo resisted inside living, preferring the great outdoors. Little by little, though, enticed by food and warmth (winter was setting in), he made himself comfortable on heating pads and cat beds, never, ever presuming. His rough start in life seemed to keep him humble and polite. He reluctantly visited the veterinarian. Always the gentleman, he did little more than meow loudly when tested, vaccinated, and castrated. The staff commented on his gorgeous, green eyes, and gentlemanly ways. He became a staff favorite. Cosmo lived a cats life. He ate, drank, eliminated (always in the litter box), played with toy mice, and when I let him go outside, he proudly brought back dead chipmunks, squirrels, and an occasional bird. (He did not seem to understand my displeasure with this behavior.) He also groomed himself, laid in slats of sunlight, and enjoyed being petted--especially under his chin. I fell deeply in love with him--hated to leave him with strangers when I traveled. A dog attacked him once, biting him in the haunches before he escaped by climbing a tree. He fell out of the tree, but hid before I could gather him up. The next morning he showed up bleeding and battered. Surgery saved him, but barely. If the dogs fangs had been a millimeter deeper, his peritoneal cavity would have been punctured and he probably would have died. After that incident, I kept Cosmo indoors, but invested in an outdoor cat corral. This way, he could bask in the sunshine, scratch tree bark, and sniff the ground while patrolling his enclosure. He was safe from predators. Some years later, he developed a blood clot in his right hind leg, lying in agony for a couple of weeks, but pulling through it all without a lot of fuss or bother. Many people think that spending resources (time, energy, money) on non-human animals is wrong--or, at best, frivolous. There are so many people who suffer and need help, why do you waste your money on a cat? British philosopher, Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832), wrestled with the idea of just which beings were worthy of rights (and resources). He wrote, The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but, Can they suffer? All sentient beings (including cats) can (and do) suffer. To inure ourselves from the suffering of a non-human animal erodes our capacity for compassion, thereby compromising our humanity. Compassion knows no hierarchy. Cosmo lived a long time. Assuming he was an adolescent when his paw and my fingers met, he lived 16 years. A few months ago, he developed kidney problems. In spite of being treated with subcutaneous fluids, his condition deteriorated. He had difficulty navigating stairs. He didnt jump up to his favorite places anymore--the sunny windowsill and the chair with the heating pad. He ate less and less, lost weight, and took on a gaunt-like appearance, much like an anorexic mystic/saint. His hind quarters gave out. I knew it was time for us to say good-bye. I took Cosmo to the veterinarians office for the last time. Euthanizing him to end his suffering, even though agonizingly difficult, felt like a compassionate act. The vet administered a muscle relaxant. We waited a few minutes until Cosmo fell asleep. She then administered an intravenous drug that stopped his heart. He took one last breath and was gone. She bent down, kissed his head, and said, You were such a good cat, Cosmo. I would have agreed out loud, but I couldnt speak. My tears choked me. My friend, Lynda, gave me a few seeds to plant on his grave. The cosmos should bloom in a few weeks.
Posted on: Tue, 20 May 2014 22:57:32 +0000
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