There is a hole in my heart, a blank space in my home this morning. My beloved Rascal, my boon 
companion of 16 years, my sweet boy, Mr. Pretty Legs, is gone.
He was the only other living thing in my house – other than the bamboo plant I had to keep well out of his reach – and now he’s gone.
Rascal didn’t just live here; he was a co-owner. He moved in when I did. And he paid his part of the mortgage with joy and affection.
When I bought my house in 1999, I wanted another cat to keep my elderly feline Katie company in her declining years. I wanted a loving, affectionate animal.
It was the perfect time to introduce a new kitten, as I had taken two weeks of vacation time to move in and could keep an eye on both cats to make sure they got along.
I had specific requirements when I walked into the animal shelter – I had fallen in love with the American shorthair, specifically a black-and-silver mackerel tabby. These animals are gorgeous, with their silver bodies and unusual black circular markings, just like the ones you see on a weather map.
The animal shelter manager took me through the cat house, with its scores of vocal and rambunctious cats and kittens of all ages and colors. No black-and-silver mackerel tabby.
“We don’t get many of those,” she said. Disappointed, I asked her to give me a call when one came in.
As my hand was on the doorknob, she said to me, ”You know, Jackie, if it were me, I’d pick a cat with a great personality. And I have just the one.”
Well. Duh.
Love at first sight
Back into the cat house we went, and she pulled out this lively gray bundle of incredibly soft, silky fur.
I fell in love.
Paperwork signed, neutering arranged, I waited several days until my new feline could come home.
When I finally introduced him to Katie, he fit seamlessly into the household. He was kind to Katie and yet full of piss and vinegar and lively, getting into everything.
And so Rascal was named.
He was smart; when I asked, “Are you ready?” he knew it was time to eat and out to the kitchen he would bound. (When Mom came to visit, I had to be sure to spell out the word “ready” if we used it in casual conversation, because that word to him was the dinner bell.)
When it was time to retire for the night, I’d say, “Time for bed, Rascal,” and he would saunter over to his well-used scratching posts and give it a few licks before joining me in the bedroom.
He was the only cat I knew who had zero interest in boxes or bags – but as soon as I pulled out my suitcase for an overnight or extended trip, he’d jump in it and lay down.
Rascal was always at the front door when I returned – whether I was gone for an hour or a week – meowing a greeting. And he never punished me for being gone by withholding his affection when I returned. He was always glad to see me.
He loved to pull open drawers and open cabinets. He chased lizards that made their way into the house. He loved to snack on plants and flowers, so much so that when I brought any into the house, I’d have to move them from room to room so he wouldn’t chew on them when my back was turned.
When I started working from home a little more than three years ago, he would sometimes jump up on my second desk and keep me company. Unless he was hungry – in which case he would get up on his back legs and gently put a paw on my arm as I worked the keyboard – he respected my work space and hours at work.
But as soon as I moved into the living room, my lap was his for the taking.
When I retired at night, propped up in bed with a book, Rascal would lay at my side, head on my chest and occasionally stretch out both paws and put them on the page I was reading. After lights out, he would wait till I was asleep and then move on to his own sleeping quarters.
Rascal was also generous. Once, in the middle of the night, he jumped up on my bed and started playing with such energy that he woke me up. When I turned on the light, I saw why – he had caught a rat and was doing what cats do.
I put on a pair of gloves to dispose of the rat, only to discover – to my sleepy fright – that the rat was still (kind of) alive.
I never needed an alarm clock; Rascal’s internal signal that it was time to eat took care of that.
One of his favorite games was “Where’s Rascal?” Every time I changed my sheets, he’d jump up on the bed and hunker down. I’d fling the sheet over him and say, “Where’s Rascal?” and he would quickly make his way to edge of the fabric and peek out at me.
He loved to be brushed. Wherever he was, all I had to do is call his name and show him the brush and he was in cat heaven.
Yeah, he was spoiled. I often joked with the cashiers at the grocery store that he ate better than I did.
Until he didn’t.
Recently, Rascal had been failing. The first thing I noticed was blood in the litter box and his appetite was gone. Even for a 16-year-old cat, he was lethargic and spent most of his time either sleeping or moving restlessly from room to room.
We made the first of many visits to the vet. Blood work indicated his hyperthyroidism from a year ago was well under control – he loved his medicine, which came in chicken-flavored treats – but there were markers that he could have cancer.
We came home with a bag full of special (and hopefully enticing) food, antibiotics, and a nasty-smelling and -tasting concoction to stimulate his appetite and a syringe for feeding if he wouldn’t eat on his own.
Nothing worked. I mashed up cans of cat food that would dissolve the crystals in his urinary tract and force-fed him. More trips to the vet; it reached the point where I spent more time in the vet’s office than in my own.
I cried and tried to hide my own distress from him. I prayed. I laid my hands on him, fervently wishing I could take his discomfort and illness into my own body. I rubbed his ears. Kept repeating, “I am doing everything I can. Worry will not change the outcome. Everything will be all right.”
I spent as much time with him as I could. I loved him.
Monday, it was back to the vet for x-rays. They revealed nothing but the vet said he could feel a mass on Rascal’s bladder. He recommended an ultrasound, which would require a two-hour round trip. That was the only way we could tell for sure what was wrong with him. And still, the prognosis would be uncertain. Was it cancer? Was it operable? Could he survive it?
Monday night was a horror. Should I or shouldn’t I? What was best for Rascal, who despite his lethargy, showed no indication of pain? Two things finally tipped me over – he could not stand up to drink water and he wouldn’t eat his beloved chicken treats.
I called the vet’s office one minute after they opened on Tuesday and said, “It’s time. This is no life for him.” I made an appointment for 12:15 p.m., when no one else would be in the office, and spent the next four hours sitting with my beautiful boy, telling him how much I loved him, how everything would soon be all right. I could feel faint rumblings of his previously ferocious purr.
A half hour before our appointment, the skies opened up and a gentle shower fell through the sunbeams.
Even the skies wept.
My neighbor kindly volunteered to take us to the vet. While I stroked Rascal and told him I loved him, he was given a sedative, the first of two shots that would forever relieve his pain and discomfort. As soon as he was under and before the final shot, I hugged him and petted him and cried some more. And left the room.
Back home, I went into a frenzy. Threw away all the syringes and opened cans of cat food that he wouldn’t eat. Tossed out the scratching post that he’d reduced to shreds. Bagged up leftover medicine and dry food and catnip and toys he routinely ignored to take to the animal shelter where I got him. Washed and dried all the bedding he used, and swept the floor where he had scattered dry food and cleaned off the surfaces where he had suffered.
And still…I see him everywhere. I have to remind myself I don’t need to worry about him eating the plants anymore. I don’t have to worry about him gobbling down that lizard that snuck in. I don’t have to worry about him getting underfoot and accidentally stepping on him. I don’t have to worry about firmly closing the door so he doesn’t sneak out.
This morning, it’s so quiet. It’s so hard.