We say goodbye to a grand old bastard

Last night when I got home from work late in the evening, JD was dejected.  His whole body slumped.

Investigation revealed that he had finally accepted that Trouble was dying.  The cat could no longer eat or drink, and visiting the litter box was an extended journey requiring multiple rests.  And he couldn't jump up to his resting spot on the couch anymore, though he tried and pathetically failed.

We hoped he'd  recuperate a little overnight, as he often has.  But this morning he still couldn't eat or drink, though he clearly wanted to.  JD made the call to schedule euthanasia, then woke me to get dressed so I could come along.  Trouble, uncharacteristically, didn't complain once about being in the crate, being in the car, or being at the vet.  The cat had already checked out of life, but his body hadn't quit yet.

I was sad, and cried, but really I felt as if the cat had left before the drugs hit him.  I'll miss him, even though he never really liked me.  He had a lot of character.

I rescued Trouble from our horse barn eight or nine years ago when he got an upper respiratory infection and the vet told me he couldn't live outside anymore.  I brought him inside so that he wouldn't get hit by cars, die of pneumonia, or suffer other pesky problems that often do in older cats.  Trouble did not appreciate the help.  He would look directly at me and then pee on something that couldn't be adequately cleaned, such as a wicker chair.  He beat up dogs.  He bit you when he was done being petted, assuming he allowed it in the first place.  He just generally wasn't nice.  I figured in case of home invasion, I'd throw Trouble at the attackers and he would just mean them to death.

 

Over the years he calmed down some.  I think it just got to be too much effort to kick everybody's ass.  And then JD moved in and wouldn't take Trouble's shit.  Trouble bit him, and JD hit him back.  Trouble respected that.  For the first time in his life, Trouble liked a person.  I was glad that in the last years of his life, Trouble actually seemed to love someone.  JD loved him back, and opened up the basement so Trouble could follow him downstairs and sleep on the sofa next to him while JD worked.  They spent many evenings cuddled together on the sofa watching tv.  JD, not a cat lover and not versed in medical care, learned everything necessary to take care of daily subcutaneous fluids and medications for this elderly, crotchety, sick cat.

 

(This did not prevent Trouble from abusing the veterinary staff at our local animal hospital, who eventually plastered most of his folder with "CAUTION:  WILL BITE" stickers.  When his tail had to be amputated five years ago, necessitating twice weekly vet visits to change the bandages, the vet staff perfected a five-person routine that ended with the cat completely enveloped in blankets, except his tail, so they could safely rebandage him.  And he did the only thing left to him:  he peed on them.  Also, as our nearly completely dead cat was being euthanised today, they still held him properly and firmly as they would for a shot, because "It's still Trouble."  I would have, too.)

It's going to be hard coming home and not seeing that handsome old face glaring up at me from the sofa.  I'm trying to remember all the routines that we've changed to accommodate his infirmities, so I can revert back to "normal".  After we've gathered up all his unopened (and in some cases very expensive) medications, we'll be donating them to the hospital to help others in dire circumstances.  Poor people have anemic cats too.

I've dug up some old pictures of the poor old guy.  Also don't miss JD's moving missive below.

Whatever he wants, you better do it the hell right now!

Portly and now bob-tailed

One of the few times he coexisted peacefully with Batty.

Dammit woman stop taking my picture!

He got sloppy drunk on Xanax.

That glazed look?  Totally high.

Xanax = would let me cuddle him

Not a fool.  Loved down sleeping bag.

No, you may not have your chair back.

The theoretical guest room?  Actually Trouble'

s room

You can tell he's old because he's letting the other two animals sleep in the room.

If Trouble had been conscious, Andy would have been in big difficulty.  But you could snuggle an unconscious Trouble.

Trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable spot on his last full day.

JD posted this as a comment online today.  It is a pretty good description of Trouble.

Thanks, folks. We've often noted, he wasn't exactly a good cat, but he was our cat.

The way I figure it, we wouldn't miss critters so much if they weren't worth it. And, on that note, one of my favorite Trouble stories:

Not long after we got ...the dog, I noticed we were getting drifts of fur all over the place. Since I'd moved in with a Roomba, I decided to see just how well it would do on insane amounts of pet fur.

Beauty didn't know what to make of the thing. She stayed back out of the way, puzzled look on her face. The Monster treated the Roomba as he did anything else: he ran away and hid. Andy alternated between ignoring it and fruitlessly trying to convince it to chase him.

Trouble, on the other hand, got up from where he was snoozing, went smack dab in the middle of the room, and plopped down on the floor as it trundled by. And eventually, the Roomba wound up on a collision course for the Old Man. And the Old Man just stared at it. It wouldn't _dare_.

It dared.

Trouble sprang up, claws out, and whapped the Roomba a good one. The Roomba's collision detection algorithm only turned it a little, and it bumped Trouble again, at which point he snarled and lit into the little red disc, attempting to beat the tar out of it in a flurry of speedy claws and gnashing of tooth. (He only had the one by then.)

The Roomba held its own for a moment or two, trying to get away, but Trouble's thrashing eventually convinced it that it had run into too many obstacles. It let out its "Something's wrong, I can't continue!" bi-tone, and powered itself down.

Trouble returned to his afternoon nap, and I never again turned the poor Roomba loose on the floor upstairs.

And that's the tale of how my cat once beat the crap out of a Roomba.