The Last Cat

Remembering the five cats in my life

When the vet comes into the room and sits down, I know it’s going to be bad news. “He’s got intestinal lymphoma,” she says, gently. I knew this was coming. For more than a year, Rooney has been treated for inflammatory bowel disease in addition to his epilepsy. In the last few days before I took him in, he hasn’t been eating or drinking much at all. The vet prescribes prednisolone and a topical appetite stimulant to ease his pain and get him eating again.

I get another two months with him. Two very short months.

Several friends offer to drive me to the vet for the last time, but I want to go alone. Rooney is my last cat, and while I know it will be a difficult drive I need this time to process. After forty years of having cats in my life, attention must be paid.

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I adopted my first cat at 14 years old. I had been spending lots of time at the Gallaghers, neighbors who had several cats and allowed kids to stop by and spend time petting and playing with the cats. There was Emily, the overweight tabby who pouted if someone called her fat to her face. Stanley was a longhair who always managed to look regal. Papageno and Papagena were Siamese cats that preferred to hang out in Mr. Gallagher’s music room, supervising students as they took their trumpet or euphonium lessons. Mrs. Gallagher smoked at least three packs a day and my mother got fed up with me coming home smelling like the Marlboro Man. “She needs a cat of her own,” she hissed to my father. When we found out about an adoption event at the Rockville Pet Hotel, I wandered around the cages and settled on a black cat with the softest fur and green-gold eyes. I named her Katie and she quickly became my companion in all things, from playing board games with Deena to studying at my desk. She preferred Swanson white meat canned chicken with a bit of broth, which my mother and I gently warmed in the microwave before serving it to her. Katie taught me how to be a cat person and left home when I did. She died after 15 years under a chair in the kitchen, right before my then-husband Mark* was supposed to take her to the vet. He called me while I was en route to a client meeting and could barely speak. I turned around and came home. I still hear the vet’s baritone telling us, “she made the decision for you” as I bent over her body on the exam table, crying, feeling like I didn’t do nearly enough. It was several years later that I met Sonya Fitzpatrick the Pet Psychic, who without any prompting asked about the black cat that jumped onto my lap as we sat at dinner. “She wants you to know that you did everything you could, it was just her time,” Sonya told me.

Katie helping me pack and study in the late '80s

When Deena’s older brother died suddenly, Mark and I took in his cat, Mossimo, a black longhair cat who was trained to jump up into his human’s arms. Moss had a bad pyothorax infection when we brought him home, and we went into debt saving his life. That cat had special skills in getting non-cat lovers to fall in love with him, lying down in the middle of the floor during parties so that everyone in the room could admire him. His appetites were legendary, and he tried everything from Pepsi to lime gummy bears to a white wine spritzer (the last was purely by accident). A friend was convinced that Mossimo was actually a very short, hirsute Italian man, based on his very non-cat like behavior. When Mark and I separated for good, I took Mossimo with me to California. He flew in coach with me from DC to LA, and later road tripped to Davis, where his mobility declined and we said goodbye at one of the best vet schools in the USA.

Mossimo on fridge and on paper bag

Several months after Katie died, I adopted Angel, an all-white male cat with big golden eyes. He didn’t get along with Mossimo, but adored Oakley, the puppy that Zia* got for Mark as a birthday gift. The two curled up together every chance they got, and Angel slept on top of Oakley’s crate every night. He had patches where Oakley had groomed him. I still regret that I didn’t leave Angel with Oakley when Mark and I separated, as their bond was so strong. Being in a series of small apartments with a cat that wasn’t interested in being his buddy was hard for Angel. I wound up rehoming him with the help of an animal-loving colleague who found him a wonderful home with a young family.

Angel on bed and on dresser

Ippie showed up outside my door on a humid July night in Long Beach. She had followed my upstairs neighbor home and came to me, crying for food. I gave her some dry food and told her she could come back, and of course she did. We had 16 years together, traveling from California back to Maryland. I lost her last year to cancer.¹

Ippie wanting some of my breakfast and lying on floor

Which brings me to Rooney, the orange and white cat I adopted from a Sacramento shelter in early November 2011. I walked in to the cat adoption area, looking for a different cat, but he laid on the floor of his crate and stretched his paw toward me. We got acquainted in a visiting room, where he was a bit shy but curious. I hadn’t planned to bring a cat home that day, but the volunteer said if I liked him, I should adopt him right away. So I did. On the ride home I debated over names. Noted journalist Andy Rooney had recently passed away, and I liked the name Rooney for a cat...and it fit his disposition. He played fetch, preferring silicone bracelets instead of fuzzy mice or sparkly balls. A water gourmand, he sampled unattended water glasses whenever he had a chance. He came running whenever the printer was working. And the only people food he really liked was salty, cheesy snacks, like cheese puffs, chips, or popcorn.

One of my favorite photos of Rooney, airing it all out on my bed. (July 2022)

I’ve had a cat in my life for the last 40 years, and with Rooney’s journey over the Rainbow Bridge, I am alone for the first time. There is no fuzzy little face to wake me up in the morning, no soft paws patting at me to share a bite of bacon or waffle. I don’t hear cats wailing their complaints in the hallway, or find piles of cat barf with bare feet. The printer runs without a cat ensuring each job is complete, and glasses of water go uninspected. It will probably be another few months before the cat hair on my clothes disappears.

Rooney and Ippie resting, checking the printer, and enjoying the cat bunk bed made from a vintage suitcase

I’ve had several people ask me if I will adopt another cat or two. At this point in my life, I don’t want to adopt another pet. For as much as I’ve loved having all of these cats in my life, I am ready for a break. I’m ready to spend time doting on other people’s pets, traveling without having to worry about finding cat care, not fussing over vet bills or the cost of pet food.

But in those moments where I expect to see Rooney around the corner, waiting for me, I wonder how long I will last without a cat of my own. I’ll be cat sitting for a colleague over winter break, and that may bring comfort. Spending time with Max, the cat that adopted Pops and Mari, helps too. Ultimately, it may not be enough.

For now, though, I sit and grieve this loss, and remember all the good times with my last cat.

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1. You can read the August 2024 tribute to Ippie here.