In his prime, the gentleman cat stood several inches in height and length above the other cats - he was solid black and long haired, an impressive 22 pounds. He was a study in feline grace and elegance, fearless and impassive with the dogs, slow and deliberate in motion. He spoke only when spoken to and then with a soft and cultured meow, waited patiently for his meals and ate with delicacy, almost never arrived in my lap without an invitation. He was well mannered, dignified, mammoth and soft to the touch, a contented and undemanding animal who walked away from conflict and disputes.
His health began to fail this past year and he declined gradually. His luxurious fur became matted and lack luster, his weight dropped considerably until I could feel his hip bones and ribs, he grew lethargic and withdrawn. There was a resignation in his eyes that I couldn't dismiss. Late on a Friday afternoon, they brought him to me wrapped in a towel and placed him ever so gently on the exam table - he lay barely moving, silent, meeting my eyes with a forgiving kind of awareness and trust. I talked to him and stroked his ears as the syringe was prepared and the injection given and in a matter of seconds his eyes closed, his heart stopped, and he died. My magnificent gentleman cat, overtaken by renal and liver failure, had moved on without protest and I think, without regret.
Even though I am completely sure he is now strolling through fields of flowers and has regained his health, that he is walking proudly and confidently with clear eyes and a new curiosity about his surroundings, there is yet another scar on my heart.
Nicodemus
3/18/2000 - 6/25/2010
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