Remembering George

I adopted George from the SSPCA in Sacramento in 2019. They waived his adoption fee because he was fourteen, and it is difficult to find homes for older cats. What nobody including me knew at the time is that George was in fact the best cat in the universe.

He was too old to chase things. Once he teased a spider out of a corner. The spider came running across my living room floor, and a minute later, George came plodding along after. Neither of us felt the need to hurry.

We spent most of our time eating, cuddling, and sleeping. Once I put on a bird video for him. As I tried to identify each bird that appeared on the screen, George went to sleep on my lap.

On the last nights, I spread a blanket on the floor for us because he could not climb. In the last mornings, I heated the wet food and fed him from my fingers. I held him against me in a steamy bathroom, so he might breathe. He held my hand with grace, and purred when he saw me. He knew he was loved, and I rested my worth on that knowledge.

I think of the way he wobbled, the way he tried in the end. The very last night, I woke up to find him settled in the litter box. He had managed to get in but could not get out. In the time we had together, George never acted out to prove a point. When he was lonely, he would camp out under my bed, exactly in the center. Then I would lie on the floor, and stretch my arm as far as it would go, just managing to touch him. In a minute or two, he would start to purr, and out he'd he come. I'd scoop him up and we would go to the couch. In the last days, he was more reluctant to come out - but he never stopped purring.

It was impossible to find him help beyond what I could give. His vet didn't have any appointments for five days. Of the four animal hospitals in the area, only one would take him - and they had a waitlist that his name went on the bottom of. When they finally texted me to bring him in, I rushed too quickly into my relief. I already understood that this would probably not be the kind of appointment where George got better. But knowing something and experiencing it are two different things.

When they brought George to me in the room where they would put him to sleep, he was nestled in a blue blanket. I touched his nose and gave him some scritches and said, "you know me, right?" George began to purr. We spent a few minutes together where I sang him "our song," which is Ella Fitzgerald's "Always." To his credit, he continued to purr. I didn't have much to tell him that I hadn't already told him every day we spent together. But I told him again.

When he went, it was so fast, there could not possibly have been time for pain. Afterward, I lifted his chin up and looked at his lifeless face. I don't know why I did this, I didn't expect to want to. But strangely, it brings me comfort now to know that he was definitely gone from that place. Gone before his body was burned.

I am still thinking about the best way to memorialize George. I will have his ashes in some weeks. Writing has helped me understand that all of the unkindness and apathy we faced in the end pales in comparison to the love we shared. George was my best friend and my family when I needed both, and I loved him, and he knew it.

He will always be my old man and my baby boy, and I will always love him.