Kendra Morrill
Among my possessions that my two sons will inherit someday, the most prized ones of all are the sealed boxes holding the remains of our dead cats.
Our first cat, Yuri, joined our family just before our first child was due. Yuri was about nine years old when we got him from the shelter, a Russian Blue, with shiny blue-gray fur and beautiful green eyes. We called him Yuri the Wonder Cat because he was so smart. We joked that he was the kind of pet that would save his family from a burning house. (And he sort of did, but that’s a story for another day).
Yuri needed a friend, so, about nine months later, we adopted Gus, a one-year-old gray cat with a patch of white fur on his chest. Gus was big. At his peak, he was close to 20 pounds and resembled a sea lion when he lay on his back – small head, large oval body, tapering to cute little feet. Gus was as docile a cat as I’ve ever seen. When our younger son was a baby and toddler, he would “cuddle” with (meaning lie on top of) Gus. Gus didn’t mind.
Yuri and Gus were BFFs for twelve years. When Yuri’s time was up, we found a veterinary service that performed in-home euthanasia. Yuri went to sleep for good in his favorite spot on our bed, surrounded by his human family. (Gus seemed to know what was about to happen and hid.) We had Yuri cremated. His remains are in a sealed box, tucked inside a velvet bag with a tuft of his fur and a paw imprint.
Six months after Yuri passed, my husband and younger son started texting photos of a gray cat with big yellow eyes that was in the PetSmart shelter. “She’s a Russian Blue!” they wrote. “She’s nine years old! No one wants her! We need to rescue her!” they wrote. “Gus needs a friend!” they wrote. I met her and fell in love. The PetSmart folks warned us that Chespa – the name she came with – didn’t like other cats. But, we thought, Gus is so sweet that even a cat who doesn’t like other cats will like him. Chespa joined our family.
The PetSmart folks were right. Gus tried really hard, but just couldn’t persuade Chespa of his charms. They eventually reached an uneasy détente and Chespa (mostly) stopped hissing and swiping at him. They never became friends, but coexisted for almost three years, until Gus started to fail.
It happened quickly. We tried to have the same service that came to our house for Yuri come for Gus, but we couldn’t get an appointment soon enough. We took Gus to our regular vet. The doctor gave him the first of two shots, a sedative to calm him before she gave him the second lethal shot. Sweet, mild-mannered Gus – all it took was the first shot and he expired. It was like he wanted to be easy-going until the very end.
Like Yuri, Gus’s remains are in a sealed box, tucked inside a velvet bag with a tuft of his fur and a paw imprint.
After Gus passed, we had a halcyon year with Chespa. We should’ve acted more quickly when we noticed a lump growing above her left eye. When our regular vet couldn’t figure out what was wrong, we should’ve found a specialty vet sooner. By the time we did, it was too late. The melanoma that had created the lump had spread. The house-call euthanasia vet came to our house on a warm, sunny October afternoon and put Chespa to sleep on our back lawn – her favorite place. Now we have a third sealed box, tucked inside a velvet bag with a tuft of fur and a paw imprint.
With Chespa gone, we were catless for the first time in seventeen years. I started trolling shelter websites and soon found Asher and Tiff, our current furry housemates. Maybe they’ll be our last. But probably not. That would leave an odd number of dead cats for our two sons to inherit.
