Bye Charles.
He loved to bring his kills to my mom, specifically.
White room, gray floor. Small exam table, padded. A few cabinets with instruments, like a scale and some pens. Pretty small for the seven of us. Well one of us is a cat. Two doors, one for us.
My mom was talking to him. My dad held him in his lap, as the sedative took hold. I pet him a few times. My hands felt like lead.
I am really lucky, I have never grieved the death of someone close to me before. On my dad’s side, my grandmother died when I was a baby, of cancer which was caught too late. My mom tells me she loved her and me, that she was small, petite woman. She told my mom that the house was hers, to decorate as she liked.
My dad’s father died when I was seven, already american. I don’t have any memories of him, except of a field in Oxapampa on his lands, and drinking a soda after playing around.
My sister brought Charles in a little box. My mom called him a monito, since he would climb the curtains as a kitten, like a little monkey. He was a little tuxedo black and white awkward creature, with ears way to big for his head.
He was there when I came back for the summer, beaten down by depression, by college feeling like a specific type of hell designed for me. He would meow as I walked by, saying hello, I think.
I held him up in a photo I took for a dating site, and Mina decided to give me a chance. Eight years later she’s given me more than a few chances, and it feels like in a small way, maybe he tipped the scale just enough there.
When I would get picked up from the train station as I tried school again, sometimes he would be on the stoop, like a little statue.
He got lost once. It felt like a preamble to the inevitable, I think. My parents had bought a house, a house they own, no more renting. Charles didn’t think that it was his home. He ran out, and didn’t come back for a few days. Everyday, through meetings, through writing code and getting lunch with my colleagues, I worried. I had the sinking feeling I would never see him again.
I drove to the old house everyday. I knocked on the doors of people who had been out neighbors for years and years, but never talked to before. My mom asked the renovators of our old house to keep an eye out. I suppose now that we moved out, the house could be updated and rents could be raised.
Finally, on my way again, my mom calls and says there was a sighting. Tears swell in my eyes as I told her I’m almost there already. I went to the backyard, and called his name.
He came sprinting, meowing and meowing into my outstretched arms. I hugged him tightly and I don’t think I have ever felt more relief in my entire life than that moment. I stayed with him in my old room for an hour, him on my lap. I kept telling anyone who would listen, he came to me. He came to me.
My brother calls, and tells me he isn’t eating. The vet says that he is too far gone. He was just fine last week, he was just fine last week. If you know anything about cats, is that when they are sick, they don’t show it until its too late. Nothing obvious at least.
Back to that room, the atmosphere is mournful. My mother is thanking him for everything, my dad is quiet and stoic. I have a solid theory that he’s hurting the worst. My brother calls him the best boy. He was. I don’t know what to do.
He’s laying down, sideways on the table. The nurse nods at me. My mom is still speaking to him. I think, what’s the point, what’s the point. He can’t hear you what’s the point.
I ask if I can just pay for everything right away, I go out through the door for us. The drive back is silent, percolated by sniffs.
On his last night, I felt as if he was hurting, he was giving off a sad purr. I gave him benadryl, a small dose and I think it helped him, I hope it did. He slept in my old bed with me. I woke up with his familiar weight on my legs, knowing it was the last time. I wonder if he appreciated me that night.
Goodbye.