Thomas Henry James rolled over for
the last time while I was too young to remember him. My grandma’s cat was in
her kitchen every morning while she flipped the breakfast pancakes. He knew she
would make one small but tasty pancake for him. All he had to do was listen for
her to say, “Thomas Henry James, roll over.” Then he rolled over, and Grandma
flipped his pancake into his bowl.
The
first cat I remember was with us in Jamestown, NY, when we moved 104 miles away
to Coudersport, PA. At age 4 I was younger than the cat. My mom had arranged
his adoption by friends in Jamestown, but about a month later he appeared at
our door in Coudersport. The saturation love of cats for humans, and vice
versa, is a happy mystery, like the Trinity.
Some
may think it is a confirmation of my brain disease that I keep a polished
wooden box of ashes in the room that’s stuffed with my computers and books,
printers, pictures of upbeat memories, things like that. The ashes recall
Abraham, my Titusville/Orlando cat for 16 years.
Abe
was succeeded in Orland Park, IL, by Thomas Henry James II, known to his
friends as Tom. He arrived at my condo as a young adult cat and has stayed for
more than 12 years. He’s never been outdoors and lives like a cheerful
puppycat, although in cat years he may be close to my age, a few weeks short of
89.
A
couple of weeks ago he started acting the way Abe did in his last days,
sneaking off to quiet corners, ignoring tuna treats, crying out in loud meows
every now and then. After a lifetime of living with cats I chose not to expose my
elderly housemate to treatment by well-meaning veterinarians. I thought he was
dying.
This
coincided with a loving invitation from my daughter and son-in-law to leave the
isolation of my condo and move into their large home one mile away. My five
grandchildren who grew up there are sometimes home, but more often away at
college or enterprises. The household includes one with a severe allergy to
cats, and so any cat is, for good reason, felina non grata.
My driving is limited to my power wheelchair
and my four-wheel electric scooter. Standing up is an adventure. Winter weather
keeps me from crossing the street to the mailbox. I wear a Rescue Alert button,
but punching a number into a telephone or into a garage door opener can be a
challenge.
Marie
and Mark are looking into the installation of a stair lift, because a head
packed with dizziness and feet that dance jigs to their own tunes rule out the
ordinary use of stairs. The reason for all this is called olivopontocerebellar
atrophy/multiple system atrophy, a form of parkinsonism.
While
we’re getting organized for my move into the household of a grandpa’s dreams, I’m
formidably anxious about Thomas Henry James II. What to do?
