This morning, I got an email sent to the family from my father, telling everyone he had sad news. I thought he was going to tell us that one of my great uncles or aunts passed. Instead, I found out that my mother had to have our cat, Finnegan, put to sleep. He apparently had a blood clot, and it paralyzed his back legs. The vet told my parents that he was in a lot of pain, and so they had to put him down.
Finnegan started out life as my mother’s sister’s cat. He was the second cat she owned, the first being Katie, who I only remember from one Christmas when we bought her catnip. The rest of the night, as we slept on the living room floor, this moonlit flurry blur would dash over us, or claw at our exposed feet. Finnegan was her replacement. When my aunt’s health got worse, my mother inherited the cat.
Finnegan lived with us for six years. He was an indoor/outdoor cat, which basically meant that whenever he wanted, we’d have to open the screen door and sliding door to let him out and in. He would often fake us out. That son of a bitch.
He liked to be petted on the head or back. However, if you tried to touch his stomach or face, he would latch on to your arm and bite you repeatedly. He would allow you to hold him for about a minute, and then he would squirm and kick you in the stomach until you let him go. When he got mad, he’d piss or shit on the floor. Often on my stuff. That furry little shit.
I often fought with Finnegan. My mother actually referred to him as our third brother. I would throw balled-up socks at him. He would refuse to come in when I called him, often making me late for work. When he wanted to come in at 9 PM, I would stand in front of the door and laugh at him, sliding it open a hair and then slamming it shut when he ran forward. In the mornings, when my parents were out of town and he needed to be fed, he would jump up on my bed and walk on my head until I woke up. I pushed him off. He would then sit on the end of my bed, curled into a little furry ball, and face the window. It looked like he was protecting me. Instead, he was getting a better angle to fart in my face.
One Christmas, a family friend bought us a spiral-cut ham. We feasted on that for about a week. Every morning, I would get a few slices out of the fridge. No matter where he was in the house, that furry little fucking hamwhore would dash and end up between my legs. I would pull a couple extra slices for him. I then would sit, eating a ham sandwich, which I tore off little pieces of ham and made him dance for them. I had it to the point where he could actually catch the slices of ham in his forepaws and eat it. Whenever we cooked, we were always expected to tithe a small portion of meat to the cat. He had a special damn bowl for it.
Finnegan disappeared for a few days. We couldn’t find him. My mother was convinced he was dead, had been hit by a car or attacked by an animal, and was dead somewhere in the woods. We waited. My mom would stand on the back porch calling for him. We went to the movies. The ride back through the neighborhood got quiet, as we silently searched the side of the roads to see him. We got home, went to the back porch, and there he was standing and waiting like nothing had happened. We opened the door, and he limped in.
He had been attacked. Whether some large animal had pinned him down, or he had had his tail trapped under a tire when he tried to run, he had been hurt. They had to do surgery, and amputate his long beautiful tail. He used to jump from the living room on to the open balcony in the kitchen. But without the tail, he couldn’t make it at first. I, of course, would laugh at him. He eventually got his jump back. But he was still skittish.
He would often find baby birds or rabbits and kill them and leave them on the back porch. My mother would scream at him, as if he could understand. We called him “killer” and “baby butcher”. Mom didn’t like that.
Finnegan had been with our family for six years. When I left for California, he made sure to pee on my new backpack. So I farted on him. It was the third cat I’d farted on. I would call my mom twice a week, and I would often end the conversation with “How’s the cat? Tell him I hate him.” She put him on the phone with my once. I called him a son of a bitch. He yowled.
I hated that goddamn cat. And I loved him very much. It made me sad I didn’t get to stay goodbye. I don’t have any pictures to post, because he wouldn’t pose for pictures. Except for my cell phone.
Which he would sit on when it charged. I hope he didn’t shit on it. That furry fuckface.
Goodbye, Finnegan. Wherever you are, I hope they have ham.
