Last year, roughly, I found two kittens who were about 5 weeks old in a crate. The man who had them was paid $3 BZD ($1.50 USD) to dispose of them in the ocean.
I couldn’t let this happen!
I ended up saving them both and found a home for one. Unfortunately, couldn’t find a home for the un-special black one so he stayed with me.
He ended up being locked outside a couple of times on a “busy” thoroughfare in town. Miraculously he survived. I named him “Scrappy” as a result.
So Scrappy (or, as I would call him, “Scrappy Doo”) grew up to be a sweetheart. He was a big baby because my female cat – Maya (may she rest in peace) – was always protecting him. Scrappy was always getting himself beat up. I swear he was limping on his left paw one day, right paw the next. It was an every-day thing.
I got him neutered before he was old enough to know what mating was but he was the first male cat I’d ever had fixed. Interestingly, the fella who’d taken his litter mate was having Scrappy’s brother neutered at the same time.
I took him home before his anesthesia had worn off and was doing laundry while he lay almost lifeless.
When he started to come out of his anesthesia, he began growling and hissing. I tried to put myself in his paws…tried to figure maybe it felt as if something had ahold of his little testes. I can’t imagine how it’d feel to be perfectly fine one minute, only to wake up with something missing and a burning sensation in its place.
I was reassured by his litter mate’s owner that his little brother was doing the same thing so I let him growl, hiss and snarl his way to semi-consciousness. Scrappy Doo had become “Scrappy don’t.”
Remember I said I was doing laundry? I took Scrappy off the bed and placed him on the floor of my little house. I didn’t want him to fall because he was moving around.
Went and put the laundry on the line.
Came back and found a lifeless cat, his neck looked broken. His head was laying awkwardly over the threshold of the back door which had a gap at the bottom. His head was almost outside (through the gap) and his body was inside.
I shrieked, “Scrappy!” (my neighbors heard it), and jerked him up. No movement, no motion, no breathing, no response. I shook him – softly at first – then quite hard. I smacked his face on both sides the way a person would do to someone who’s passed out.
No response.
Finally, his eyes flitted open and he was just as before. I never got any kid of explanation for why this happened and it was quickly forgotten.
Fast forward to last night.
I’ve had a rough time lately and I won’t get into it but I like sleeping with my cat. I always have. Their purring sounds are so calming and soothing to me (though I hate it when they start kneading me. Their little claws hurt!). Scrappy’s no different.
We went to sleep, him kneading my boob and nuzzling my armpit.
Oh stop. Don’t act like you’ve never had a cat nuzzle your armpit!
I fall asleep listening to a meditation about – I don’t remember. Success or healing or talking to your animal totem. Something like that.
I awaken in the middle of the night to pee and Scrappy is nestled against me beneath the covers. Unusual for any cat in my experience, but Scrappy’s weird so I didn’t think much of it.
I rolled over and tried to ignore my need to go to the bathroom. Thinking erroneously as always, that if I could just get back to sleep, the urge would wait til morning.
It didn’t. And Scrappy – despite my stirring – didn’t move.
I sat up, pulled the sheet to the side.
Scrappy didn’t move.
Instinctively, I put my hand on his belly with the sheet still covering him. I couldn’t feel his belly rising and falling.
Scrappy wasn’t breathing!
I jumped out of that bed as if it were a bed of hot coals. I couldn’t see myself but I imagine I looked like a little kid staring at a piece of candy that’d just been dropped in a pile of sand or something. Half disgusted; half mortified.
I reached over from the two-feet-away area I’d jumped to and shoved at the back of his body (he was laying sideways, obviously) beneath the sheet. It was like someone with a stick, touching a dead animal to see if it’s still alive.
Scrappy didn’t move.
This was where I panicked. What on earth would I do?
Oh my God not Scrappy!
What does one do with a dead cat in the jungle at 3 AM? Oh my God!
Thinking back, my rudimentary jungle training reminded me that dead animals are typically disposed of in the bush.
But I can’t do that! The dogs would tear his little body to shreds!
He wasn’t snake-bitten, was he?
I tried remembering – and was able to recall with striking accuracy – the hours before bed and even the day before. In fact, Scrappy’s whole life flashed before my eyes.
I paced. I think I stomped a couple times. I cried angrily.
Scrappy didn’t move.
I resigned myself to having to go wake up El. I really didn’t want to do that but I felt like a little kid who’d just had a nightmare and wanted mommy. I really did.
But I had to do something. I couldn’t sleep with a dead cat.
I grabbed my robe, trying to think of how I could wake up El. I had no idea how she’d react. Would she be angry? “Why did you wake me up over a fucking cat!?”
Would she be understanding? “Oh honey. Come let’s see.”
Would she be indifferent? “It’s nothing. Perfectly natural. Leave him til morning. Just put him on a chair.”
As I reached for my robe, I saw a slight movement.
Scrappy moved!
His head flopped up like a sleeping baby in a car seat going over a speed bump.
I actually jerked back in shock.
I heaved a heavy gasped “Scrappy!?”
Yanked the covers off of him.
He was rather perturbed.
I’d woken him up.
I have discovered cats can have narcolepsy. Yes! I instantly started googling this morning. I don’t know if he has narcolepsy because his eyes were closed in both instances (although I couldn’t really tell at 3 AM this morning because he was wrapped in the tangled sheets) but I figure they were.
Now it’s got me thinking It’s gonna suck when he really dies. What if he dies in bed? I’ll never know he’s dead. This brings all kinds of macabre things to mind and I hope it never happens.
All I can say is, “Scrappy? Don’t.”
Cristina Johnson, Vagabond Writer 