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Saying goodbye to Ollie
01 December 2010
Ollie showed up at our door in the summer of 1997. He was an adult cat then, maybe two years old, but possibly older. And he was a big cat, bigger than any other we'd ever had, his short fur all black except in the sunlight when you could see he had a dark, chocolate brown undercoat that suggested a Burmese heritage. A tiny brush of white was barely visible on his neck. He looked like a panther, a handsome cat with a long nose and elegant features. And he was smart, sharp as a whip; his golden eyes bespoke a big brain behind them.
We had been feeding a black cat, a stray tom, for a few weeks, that spring, but because he was not neutered, we didn't give him free access to the house. Instead we put him in a large dog crate overnight, with food, water and a litter box, then let him out in the morning. We were talking about getting him neutered and vaccinated in the next few days to keep him. When Ollie appeared at the door, I initially thought he was this other black cat coming for food. I was in a rush to get to work (I was editor of the EB back then), so I didn't really pay a lot of attention. I simply opened the basement door and let him in. I figured we could clean up if he sprayed indoors and deal with it later. I remember thinking, "Susan's going to kill me for this..." but I got on my motorcycle and headed to the office.
When I got home that evening, Susan pointed to this black cat in the kitchen and asked, "Who is this?" Then I looked out the sliding door to the back deck and saw the tom sitting outside, waiting for his meal. Only then did I realize I had let in another cat.
Ollie settled in quickly, comfortably, and never left, although the tom disappeared a short while later. Back then we have, as best as I can recall, four other cats. All strays, too. Ollie was number five, but he seemed like number one most of the time.
Ollie was the archetypal cat. He liked to be petted and brushed, but only when he wanted it. He would come to you for attention, but was cool if he didn't initiate it. He liked to be alone from the others, and although he never fought with the other cats, he disdained their company. He loved warmth and spent most of the summer days sleeping on a cushion on a back-deck chair or sometimes in the afternoon on the front deck. Mornings he loved to go out and sit in the sun, sometimes napping on the deck, but always came back to the shaded chair when it got too hot. He always came in at night and never stayed out overnight.
He could be aloof, but also affectionate; his choice. He enjoyed sleeping against us in bed, liking the body warmth, but when otehr cats came up, he would often move away.
He wasn't much of a hunter, although he brought us the usual treats now and then - a mouse, a baby squirrel, even a baby rabbit, a bird or two. All alive. He didn't seem interested in killing and eating them, just in showing us he could do it. Most were released back outside, battered but able to run and hide. When a squirrel got into the house one year, Ollie merely watched it race around, disinclined to chase it. Ollie seemed above such things.
When Ollie wanted something - like a human to feed him and we were trying to sleep in - he had several tactics. One was yodelling. He made the most infernal racket of any cat I've ever heard. First time we heard it, we jumped out of bed, fearing he was in great distress, and raced downstairs to find him sitting in the middle of the kitchen. No, he was just checking to see if we were awake. Another tactic was to go into the bathroom and pull open the cabinet doors. They're spring-loaded, so he could open then, and let them go with a satisfying bang. He'd do that until we got up.
When we walked the dog, he'd sometimes accompany us a hundred or so feetm along the sidewalk, walking beside Sophie just out for the stroll, but never going too far. And when we came back from the walk, he'd get down from his spot on the front deck and walk to the road's edge to greet us, often meowing his welcome.
In the morning he would push open the bathroom door and come in, usually getting into the bathtub to lick at the water after we had showered. He also liked to get up on the counter and drink from the tap. As he got older, jumping up onto the counter seemed too difficult, and we had to lift him up and down. Even getting in and out of the bathtub became a chore.
He was an expensive cat: Ollie had a tendency to bladder stones and over the years underwent several blockages that meant rushing him to the vet for a $500-plus visit. In between, he lived on expensive but necessary special food to help reduce the chances of these blockages. Well, he was worth it. We never begrudged the costs for gentleman Ollie. Pets are, after all, a responsibility.
Over the last year, he started to slow down visibly. He stopped coming upstairs as often because stairs were harder on his joints, and instead took to sleeping on a living room chair or on one of my soft ukulele cases (which I could never use for fear of disturbing him). Ollie spent more time sleeping as he aged, and when the summer ended and he couldn't relax in the sun, he huddled over a hot-air vent whenever the furnace came on. That's where we found him, Tuesday morning: on a vent, soaking up all the warmth.
He had had a bladder infection in the fall, and after a regimen of antibiotics, we thought we had cured him. But even though his bladder cleared up, he never really got better. He just got slower, an inexorable process we watched progress every day. He ate less and less, finally merely licking at some soft food before returning to his sleeping spot. He was losing weight, his eyes became sunken, his spine standing out like a sharp ridge. We knew it was time. He wasn't going to get better, he wasn't going to get younger. He was just going to waste away and starve. We couldn't allow that.
Over the past week, we had watched Ollie move shakily and slowly from spot to spot. Unsteadily trying to lap at the water bowl, then sitting in front of the back door, looking out at the deck where he had spent so many summers in the sun. What did he think, what did he remember? Do cats realize they are old? Did he know he'd never sleep on the chair again? But even the effort of sitting there seemed to tire him, and he shuffled over to the uke case under the sideboard to sleep again. We both knew the time was near for him.
Tuesday morning, I carried him into the car and we drove to the vet for Ollie's last visit. We stayed with him while the drugs took effect. He passed away so quickly, so quietly, that we knew we had done the right thing.
He was such a big character, such a big personality, that I never thought anything could stop his big heart from beating. But it did, and after 13 wonderful years of his company, Ollie breathed his last. He will be missed.
We had been feeding a black cat, a stray tom, for a few weeks, that spring, but because he was not neutered, we didn't give him free access to the house. Instead we put him in a large dog crate overnight, with food, water and a litter box, then let him out in the morning. We were talking about getting him neutered and vaccinated in the next few days to keep him. When Ollie appeared at the door, I initially thought he was this other black cat coming for food. I was in a rush to get to work (I was editor of the EB back then), so I didn't really pay a lot of attention. I simply opened the basement door and let him in. I figured we could clean up if he sprayed indoors and deal with it later. I remember thinking, "Susan's going to kill me for this..." but I got on my motorcycle and headed to the office.
When I got home that evening, Susan pointed to this black cat in the kitchen and asked, "Who is this?" Then I looked out the sliding door to the back deck and saw the tom sitting outside, waiting for his meal. Only then did I realize I had let in another cat.
Ollie settled in quickly, comfortably, and never left, although the tom disappeared a short while later. Back then we have, as best as I can recall, four other cats. All strays, too. Ollie was number five, but he seemed like number one most of the time.
Ollie was the archetypal cat. He liked to be petted and brushed, but only when he wanted it. He would come to you for attention, but was cool if he didn't initiate it. He liked to be alone from the others, and although he never fought with the other cats, he disdained their company. He loved warmth and spent most of the summer days sleeping on a cushion on a back-deck chair or sometimes in the afternoon on the front deck. Mornings he loved to go out and sit in the sun, sometimes napping on the deck, but always came back to the shaded chair when it got too hot. He always came in at night and never stayed out overnight.
He could be aloof, but also affectionate; his choice. He enjoyed sleeping against us in bed, liking the body warmth, but when otehr cats came up, he would often move away.
He wasn't much of a hunter, although he brought us the usual treats now and then - a mouse, a baby squirrel, even a baby rabbit, a bird or two. All alive. He didn't seem interested in killing and eating them, just in showing us he could do it. Most were released back outside, battered but able to run and hide. When a squirrel got into the house one year, Ollie merely watched it race around, disinclined to chase it. Ollie seemed above such things.
When Ollie wanted something - like a human to feed him and we were trying to sleep in - he had several tactics. One was yodelling. He made the most infernal racket of any cat I've ever heard. First time we heard it, we jumped out of bed, fearing he was in great distress, and raced downstairs to find him sitting in the middle of the kitchen. No, he was just checking to see if we were awake. Another tactic was to go into the bathroom and pull open the cabinet doors. They're spring-loaded, so he could open then, and let them go with a satisfying bang. He'd do that until we got up.
When we walked the dog, he'd sometimes accompany us a hundred or so feetm along the sidewalk, walking beside Sophie just out for the stroll, but never going too far. And when we came back from the walk, he'd get down from his spot on the front deck and walk to the road's edge to greet us, often meowing his welcome.
In the morning he would push open the bathroom door and come in, usually getting into the bathtub to lick at the water after we had showered. He also liked to get up on the counter and drink from the tap. As he got older, jumping up onto the counter seemed too difficult, and we had to lift him up and down. Even getting in and out of the bathtub became a chore.
He was an expensive cat: Ollie had a tendency to bladder stones and over the years underwent several blockages that meant rushing him to the vet for a $500-plus visit. In between, he lived on expensive but necessary special food to help reduce the chances of these blockages. Well, he was worth it. We never begrudged the costs for gentleman Ollie. Pets are, after all, a responsibility.
Over the last year, he started to slow down visibly. He stopped coming upstairs as often because stairs were harder on his joints, and instead took to sleeping on a living room chair or on one of my soft ukulele cases (which I could never use for fear of disturbing him). Ollie spent more time sleeping as he aged, and when the summer ended and he couldn't relax in the sun, he huddled over a hot-air vent whenever the furnace came on. That's where we found him, Tuesday morning: on a vent, soaking up all the warmth.
He had had a bladder infection in the fall, and after a regimen of antibiotics, we thought we had cured him. But even though his bladder cleared up, he never really got better. He just got slower, an inexorable process we watched progress every day. He ate less and less, finally merely licking at some soft food before returning to his sleeping spot. He was losing weight, his eyes became sunken, his spine standing out like a sharp ridge. We knew it was time. He wasn't going to get better, he wasn't going to get younger. He was just going to waste away and starve. We couldn't allow that.
Over the past week, we had watched Ollie move shakily and slowly from spot to spot. Unsteadily trying to lap at the water bowl, then sitting in front of the back door, looking out at the deck where he had spent so many summers in the sun. What did he think, what did he remember? Do cats realize they are old? Did he know he'd never sleep on the chair again? But even the effort of sitting there seemed to tire him, and he shuffled over to the uke case under the sideboard to sleep again. We both knew the time was near for him.
Tuesday morning, I carried him into the car and we drove to the vet for Ollie's last visit. We stayed with him while the drugs took effect. He passed away so quickly, so quietly, that we knew we had done the right thing.
He was such a big character, such a big personality, that I never thought anything could stop his big heart from beating. But it did, and after 13 wonderful years of his company, Ollie breathed his last. He will be missed.
