No Easy Way to Say Goodbye

It's no secret that when Kelly and I got married, I didn't really want children. When she'd ask me, I'd say "Sure." But that was like, "Sure, I guess so," not, "Sure, you bet I do." I figured by the time Kelly got serious about the topic, it would be years later and I'd have come around. But the fact was, I thought of kids like I did cats and dogs: tolerable if they were someone else's but not something I wanted for myself.

Much to my surprise—and distress—it wasn't long after our wedding before Kelly started bringing up babies. This scared the heck out of me, made worse by the fact that her younger sister and, it seemed, every female friend close to her age was either having children or wanting to. Meanwhile, I was nowhere near ready to be a father, perfectly happy acting like the carefree and irresponsible mid-20's guy that I was. I lived for late nights, live music, and spontaneous road trips. How on earth would a kid fit into that lifestyle?

As the pressure mounted, Kelly started bringing up pets as well. In the back of my mind, I knew getting one would afford me some breathing room, at least temporarily. But she wanted a cat, and I wanted nothing to do with one. Cats were moody, cats shredded things, and cats needed litter boxes. Why on earth would I want a cat?

But then, just as Zach would change my mind about kids a few years later, Stardust Bosco Bowie changed my mind about cats. A neglected Persian we spotted at the local pet store, he'd come from a mill. And while normally, we'd not have bought such an animal, we felt as if we were rescuing him—and were told as much by a vet at his first visit.

Bowie stole my heart overnight. But very quickly, he developed health problems—serious ones. The vet suggested a friend might help him, and I immediately gave into the idea, assuming I'd misjudged cats and that any other we adopted would be as easy a fit as Bowie. So we located a breeder whose prices seemed too good to be true because...well, they were...and we ignored the fact that the kittens overrunning her house were not sociable at all, content to grab the only cat who'd actually let us catch it—especially since she was adorable.

Though we hoped she'd open up in time, Belly was reclusive and stayed that way. Even our closest friends found it hard to believe she existed, since Belly was seen in daylight about as often as your average Bigfoot. Usually, she showed herself around 3:00 a.m. Whining. Wanting attention. And parking herself on my chest, demanding it. Cute as she was, she made it hard to love her.

Meanwhile, Kelly's ploy had worked. I'd found a spot in my heart that wanted children, and we'd welcomed Zach into our world. The cats loved to linger about him, and even Belly became a bit more open. It was hard to believe, but photos from that era prove it.

And then, out of the blue, we lost Bowie. Struck by a thrombosis, Kelly and I had to deal with the grief of allowing the vet to euthanize him. It was a harrowing experience, and it brought out all the reasons I didn't want to allow myself to love any little dependent beings, human or otherwise. And yet, Belly suddenly became almost completely reclusive, just when I needed her most. Whether she was as affected by Bowie's disappearance as we were, I'm not sure. But from that day on, she became Invisicat. She seemed content with her phantom existence, and though it seemed odd to family and friends, it worked for her—and for us.

When we adopted Shack last year, our vet pointed out that despite Belly's apparent health, it was in both of their best interest—and Zane's—to be more attentive to her, just in case. As if on cue, Belly began showing signs of age. First, she started peeing wherever she wanted. Then pooping. And more troubling, she began losing weight, which she could hardly afford, and showing signs of kidney trouble. Finally, she was diagnosed with heart worms. Yet, every time we had "that" talk with the vet, she'd stabilize, and we'd go back to the way things had always been, letting her live quietly in our bathroom.

When we woke this morning, we found that Belly had apparently lost control of all her bodily functions. Between that and the lethargy she'd been exhibiting, showing no interest in grooming or otherwise caring for herself, arthritis that caused her to tiptoe as she walked, and the fact that she'd acquired heart worms, we knew she needed to see the vet. Kelly did the dirty work and took her. And once he learned she'd lost a quarter of her body weight since February, he told Kelly it was "time" and that we were doing the humane thing by letting her go.

Kelly brought home Belly's collar, and we shared a few tears. Then, I prepared myself to break the news to the kids. Zoë wasn't overly affected, but Zach certainly was, primarily because he had no warning and didn't get to say goodbye. I felt bad about that, but Kelly said there was no way she could have walked out and prolonged the process, either, which I understood.

Losing Belly closes a chapter in my and Kelly's life together. Caring for her and Bowie seemed like a Really Big Deal to me when we acquired them. Had I only known. But they helped me prepare for parenthood and with it, far greater demands. Fortunately, we've got a great dog, another cool cat, and three great kids to more than fill the void Belly leaves behind. But I'm an old pro at caretaking and nurturing now, and I have those two cats to thank for it.

Be at peace, my little friend. And know that any time I awake at 3:00 a.m., I'll be thinking about you. And that if it happens tonight, I'll no doubt be shedding a tear or two...