My tuxedo cat Rockford died after a short, intense two-week illness. He was thirteen years, nine months old. I was absolutely heartbroken. When you adopt your first pet, they don’t tell you how awful the end is. Why would they? No one would go through with the adoption.
Because the end was awful. And sudden.
He was my buddy. My best friend. My roommate of over thirteen years. It’s been seven months since he passed and I’ve just now been able to write about it.
Turns out he had a rare form of pancreatic cancer; the oncologist at the animal hospital said he had found only four other documented cases. I didn’t believe I’d be able to make the hard decision that I knew was coming. How could I do that to Rockford? But he was not eating and in pain; his abdomen had been filling up with fluid. He didn’t have much time left.
One evening after the diagnosis I rushed him back to the hospital and they drained the fluid and gave him an appetite stimulant. He had a brief resurgence that night and even ate. But it didn’t last. Early in the morning on March 26, 2024 I heard Rockford get out of his cat bed and drink water out of his bowl. He collapsed before he could make it back to his bed. The time had come; there really was no other choice. If I didn’t make the decision then, would I be keeping him around for his sake or mine? He wasn’t eating, so I couldn’t get any medication into him—painkillers or appetite stimulants. It was too late for chemo, which wouldn’t have worked anyway. The time had come.
In normal times, Rockford would jump up and lay on my chest every morning, waking me sometimes as early as 5:30 a.m. It was one of our routines. He would purr, and rub his whiskered face against my bearded face, pausing in-between rubs so that I could kiss his cheek. Now I realized that he had probably done this for the last time. In his final two weeks it was probably too painful for him to make the leap onto the bed, or he was too weak, or maybe he had other things on his mind than waking his human.
Well, one morning right before the end, I felt Rockford land on the bed—he had been able to make the jump—and crawl onto my chest. Even as it was happening, I knew this was going to be the final time. Now this was early, six o’clock or so, and I had yet to get up and use the bathroom. I was busting. But I stayed there, not moving, trying to enjoy this final morning ritual with him. I was not going to move and break this moment, even if it meant peeing my pants. (His weight on me wasn’t helping the matter.) I was extremely grateful and happy—and extremely sad. But I soaked in every moment, trying to lock it into my memory. Eventually he jumped off and I made it to the bathroom in the nick of time.
I remember when I lived in my second floor coop apartment. When I’d get home from work and park my car, he’d be in the open (screened) bedroom window meowing down at me, excited that I was (finally!) home. I’d look up at him and say, “I’ll be right up Rockford!” He’d meow back and leap off the windowsill, and by the time I got to the front door he’d be there to greet me. We were so happy to see each other! He’d purr and roll over and this was the one time of day that he’d let me rub his belly. It was another routine we had.
I had thirteen great years with Rockford. He loved me and I loved him and that was all that mattered. I took care of him and he took care of me. And I just needed to take care of him one more, final, awful time. So I did.
I got Rockford’s remains (“cremains” they called them) back a week or two after his death. I didn’t know what to do with them. The thought crossed my mind to see if a pet cemetery would bury the boxed remains. But the thought of burying Rockford somewhere that I had no connection to, in a place I’d most likely never visit again was too depressing to me. To just leave him alone somewhere. The ideal solution would be to sneak him into my parents’ grave somehow, but I’m sure that’s not allowed (or legal). So he sits, for now, on my dresser, or occasionally next to my computer.
So, no, they didn’t tell me how awful the end would be. But even if they had, I wouldn’t have changed a thing—and I’d do it all again. And in fact, I have.
She’s another tuxedo cat. We named her Roxanne, in honor of Rockford, and to keep his memory alive. Being a tuxedo, she looks a lot like Rockford, could be his younger, female doppelgänger. But she has a different personality, and a lot of kitten energy. She and I now have begun to make our own routines.
Roxanne was a feral when my wife and I adopted her, and we had to keep her crated at first, because she wouldn’t even let us pet her. It was a slow process socializing her, letting her get used to us, to trust us. After a few months she is now sleeping on the bed with us at night, she sits on my lap (or keyboard) when I’m working at my computer, she lets me kiss her, and once in a while she even scampers up my back and stands on my shoulder. We’ve come a long way.
Having Roxanne around and seeing her progress and knowing that we’ve given her a good home has helped with the loss of Rockford. He’ll always be with me, and she’ll make sure of that.
—Donald Capone
Rockford the Cat Books 