Abercrombie

I once had a cat named Abercrombie (apologies to Dinesen). He was a large grey tiger, boasting a muscular eighteen pounds in his prime, who came into my life when he was no bigger than my foot and proceeded to manage my household for eleven years with a style and swagger that is not likely to be repeated, not even by his successors, Fitch and Amarina.

Abercrombie had a way about him that let the whole world know he was entirely special, whether he was navigating our apartment with his from-the-shoulders wildcat stride, wooing a new human acquaintance with either turned tail or polite greetings, trouncing his feline roommate, Moreta, by pinning her to whatever flat surface she might have been on, or flossing his teeth with my hair at odd hours of the morning while I was desperately trying to sleep. Everyone who met him recognized Abercrombie as an unusual presence and noted his personality.

What I remember now, now that he is gone, is how human he seemed to me and almost everyone else who knew him. I swear that in his later years he was able to meow in a way that actually sounded like he was trying to say my name. I also remember that Abercrombie had no tolerance for baby talk and would only be attentive when spoken to like an adult. Many was the night I would come home from work and appreciate no end this cat who, once fed of course, would sit quite patiently on my kitchen table and listen to me talk about my day.

Abercrombie was the ugly runt of his litter eleven years ago, complete with disproportionately big ears and feet large enough to keep him stumbling for months after he came home. We weathered the usual and unusual traumas of living together including his ill-chosen spraying of the interior of my baby grand piano when he finally came of age and an expensive, lengthy round of hospitilization at the NYC Animal Hospital after he fell from my neighbor's third story window. Each time my piano tuner commented on the scent of my piano I was ready to kill the damn cat, but when push came to shove I spent close to two thousand dollars to rescue him from a footfull of broken toes and dangerous lung contusions.

Abercrombie was prone to twinkle-toed dancing after imaginary playmates at sunrise and sunset. He expected lap-time with me, without fail, each and every weekend morning and I'll never forget the confusion that occurred when my job required a swing shift, such that I had to be at work every third sunday at 6 a.m. He loved chasing after a Christian Dior belt on my bed time after time and I enjoyed that no end. My designer belt from my days on Wall St. had turned into a cat toy. It still hangs on the bedroom closet doorknob in hopes that other cats will want to play with it.

He qualified as a strange member of his species given his preferences for a variety of fresh vegetables. Unless in the foulest of moods or not feeling well, he would come running whenever I cut open a tomato. Fresh tomatoes from my parents' garden had to be hidden safely on top of the refrigerator to avoid him making free with them to the point of gastronomic distress. The first and only time I made the mistake of leaving half a dozen within Abercrombie's reach on the kitchen counter, I came home to six half eaten tomatoes and a slightly under-the-weather, but happy, cat. He also showed great preference for asparagus, to the point of whipping it about my kitchen in a frenzied high before finally eating it. This lead me to some research about asparagus, during which I found out that the plant is an herb rather than a vegetable and does indeed have oils that might affect those who ate it. Abercrombie also loved green beans and sugarsnap peas which again would be chased and thrown viciously about the apartment prior to the final capture. It has been strange this summer to bring home the always anticipated spoils of various gardens and farm markets and not be able to enjoy them with my cat.

These are the easy things to talk about.

Over time, Abercrombie and I formed a very strong bond which I'm willing to bet went both ways. I've always felt that he was meant to be my cat, right down to the realization of the extraordinary timing of his presence in my life. I adopted him unseen a few months before my world was severely rocked and he did much to help me make it through the next few years, helping me become well enough to once again enjoy happy times. Then he left a mere three weeks after I'd moved house to what was as close to my dream world as my budget would allow and had really started to enjoy life in general. Abercrombie and Moreta heard, ad infinitum, about how happy and relieved I was to finally be able to hear the ocean from my livingroom and putter about my back porch after work, glass of wine in tow, making sure the potted lilies and geraniums were in good health. It was as though, in a slightly spooky way, he knew that his job was done.

Another indication of our attachment is the fact that several months before he finally became visibly ill, I began to think seriously about losing one of my cats in spite of them being only eleven years old. Until that time I had seriously believed that I would have another five or six years with Abercrombie and Moreta in that they had always lived indoors and always been in terrific health, but the uncomfortable thoughts gnawed at me to the point where I actually discussed my concerns with my parents and best friend. Their reassurances that I was worrying prematurely helped somewhat but my gut told me otherwise. In retrospect, I do truly believe that Abercrombie had somehow told me that he would be leaving soon and then proceeded to wait until I could handle it as best possible.

When Abercrombie finally became sick with nausea and refused to eat I did my best to convince myself that this was standard feline upset, most likely a delayed reaction to the stress of having moved. After all, everyone knows that cats do not adjust to new quarters with anything that even remotely resembles good grace. Yet even before I took him to the animal hospital my heart was sinking. I knew that this was going to be the end.

Abercrombie and I were both terribly fortunate to stumble into the hands of what must be the finest animal doctor and hospital in the world as far as I'm concerned. The vet was sympathetic, empathetic, and generous with her time and at the same time completely above board with possibilities and prognoses. Over the course of Abercrombie's last four days, he and his doctor clearly formed a relationship that was at first happy and then full of trust. For this I will always be grateful. Everything is more bearable knowing that, while his last days were lived away from me he still was with people who truly cared.

After a nightmarish round of seesawing diagnoses, blood tests, x-rays, and unsuccessful remedies, our vet finally x-rayed Abercrombie one more time from a different angle and found a tiny blockage in his intestines. Exploratory surgery was arranged in hopes of finding that he had swallowed something that could be removed. It wasn't to be the case. As it turned out, Abercrombie had a massive case of stomach and intestinal cancer which had spread into his lymph nodes. The vet removed as much as possible and resected him in hopes of buying him another six months of good life before it would be time to put him down, this surgery had actually been successful with one of her own cats, but again it wasn't to be the case.

Abercrombie was already weak and had learned not to eat care of his disease, something I will always wonder if I might have been able to prevent if I'd been more observant even though everyone tells me no, and was on the path of starving to death if I didn't help him out. We had marvelous visits his last few days, two hours at noon and two more after 5:00 pm thanks to the generosity of the animal hospital, during which we lay on an examining room floor together and held on to each other, I think, mentally. Abercrombie was too uncomfortable to be held or petted for any length of time at that point, though his caretakers assured me he wasn't in any significant pain.

Thursday finally came, 11 july. Abercrombie still wasn't eating, his doctor was very concerned, and I had all but come to the conclusion that it was time to let him go. During our noontime visit I talked to Abercrombie about it all, after having presented him with his beloved asparagus and vine ripened tomatoes to no avail. My heart broke as I watched him stagger and then vomit green bile with a weakness that assaulted the dignity he'd always had. At one point as he wandered about the room he stopped and swayed, his eyes black and opaque whereas before they had always been marvelously bright. He was clearly more than halfway to the other side. "Abercrombie," I asked, at once dreading and hoping for the obvious answer, "is it time for you to go?" He responded with his last moment of looking like himself, ears perked forward, and meowed in that way that sounds like my name. "Rrar-rryn?" "Oh yes," I thought to myself, "you're ready to go." Aloud, I said, "Ok, sweets, but I'm going to miss you."

After some conversation with the vet and a few more minutes alone with Abercrombie the time came when the decision was irrevocable. I tried to remember everything I'd read about euthenizing pets the previous weekend in my book about indoor cats, how important it is to send the animal out on a happy note and keep him from sensing our sorrow. I don't know how successful I was in that and I hope I didn't fail Abercrombie in my final act of love for him. I do remember panicking when he pulled his foreleg away from the needle, thinking, "Oh god, he wants to live," and then convincing myself that his action was instinctive. No cat wants his foot held, for any reason. It took less than a minute. "Is he gone?" I asked. The doctor listened for any last heartbeat with her stethoscope and confirmed what I already knew, allowing me to finally collapse after a week of hoping for something other than the inevitable. I regretted making anyone uncomfortable, falling to my knees and wailing his name, but there was nothing else I could do given the position this cat had in my life.

At this point, Abercrombie's vet was in tears remembering her own favorite beast as was the handler who was there to assist. "Do you always cry when you put an animal down?" I asked. "You can lie to me." "No," the doctor responded, "only when they remind me so much of my old guy." I don't think she was lying. We spent a few more minutes petting my dead cat, me commenting on the absurdity of the act to which she answered, "He's still here, he appreciates it." Finally she took the body away and the handler returned with the bill, allowing me to deal with concrete details in the privacy of the examining room. The vet popped her head in the door only a couple of minutes later, her eyes still red and swollen from crying, saying, "Don't go anywhere yet, I have something to show you!" Numb and unhappy as I was, I couldn't imagine what she was talking about and I nearly fainted when she returned with a two-week-old male kitten, offspring of a stray who had been found only weeks before, and put him in my hand. He was so impossibly tiny and still had newborn cataracts in his pale blue eyes. "I'm not trying to force you into anything, but he's yours if you want him. It's another six weeks before he can leave the litter and I won't promise him to anyone else until you tell me no."

And this is the aforementioned Fitch. Abercrombie was not named for the store, in fact I first heard his name long before I ever had any intentions of keeping cats or was aware of Abercrombie & Fitch. The name belonged to a spaniel puppy in a dog food commercial and my thought was to someday give the name to a dog. Nevertheless, I think Abercrombie would appreciate the humorous namesake, and I do know that I have found some peace in quietly preserving his memory in a way that will keep him close to me.

Amarina is one of Fitch's sisters from the litter, whom I'd also agreed to bring home to live with Moreta and me. She has been named for a beautiful Elton John song (Apologies to Elton - I spelled it wrong on her papers. I've since learned that the name is actually Amoreena.) I heard for the first time last spring just before I moved and again the naming isn't in keeping with my original ideas. I'd thought to someday name a daughter Amarina, but things have happened differently as they always do. The name came easily, after much fishing around, in that it starts with an A and has four syllables, just like Abercrombie. The symmetry of it all appeals to me.

The last thing I said to Abercrombie was, "I love you more than anything, but it's time for you to go take care of someone else." I think, now, that he said the same thing to me.

Cheers 'Crombers, beubelah of mine. I love you no end, I thank you for being with me, and I wish you an eternity with your beloved tomatoes and asparagus. Please don't forget to keep those Dior belts in their place. Moreta, your gorgeous and adversarial lady, misses you too.