Jacob would die in November. His pain would be controlled and he could stay at home, the doctor assured us.
First, he would experience neuropathy in his extremities and skin changes. As biological systems failed, he would endure surges in emotions and restlessness, some disorientation. Mobility would not be lost until nearly the end. Joints would swell. He would sleep more and probably experience hallucinations. Finally, the insidious disease would take his heart.
“Better to know in advance when you are going to die, right Hon?” Jacob said to me in June, on hearing the news.
I couldn’t argue. He’d lived a full life and wanted to go on his terms.
My husband chose to die without advanced treatment and extreme measures. The alternative the doctor explained was “ghastly” (my word). “It might buy you another six or eight months,” he’d said. With intense treatment, the side effects could be “devastating” (Jacob’s word). The “with treatment” timeline, however, was indeterminate.
“Can you be that precise in a diagnosis, doctor?” Jacob asked, sounding ever upbeat.
“Medicine is a science. There is a natural and predictable progression of this disease. We will be monitoring you for any changes,” he assured us.
Death seemed so orderly at the time.
Two years before Jacob’s diagnosis, we adopted Ellie. It had been a few months since we’d lost our previous cat, one in a string of two-dozen dogs and cats.
Ellie was Jacob’s cat.
I took the spot as the first cat person in the family, dating to our college days in Pennsylvania. I’d been raised with cats and dogs—a houseful of pets coming and leaving us.
Jacob took to our first cat, albeit with some caution that, only now, I found curious. Gus slept with us. I sometimes awoke in the night to find both Jacob and the cat awake facing each other. I never gave it much thought at the time.
We had maybe a dozen cats over our forty years together, sometimes three cats at a time. All were indoor, and many found a lap or the bed to be a resting place.
Jacob once instructed our son Tommy to, “never to stare at a cat.”
“Why?” Tommy said. He’d been rough-housing with one of our males.
“Cats see you a threat when you look into their eyes, Tommy,” replied Jacob with a little more intensity than required. “They can attack.”
Tommy said nothing.
“That’s not quite right, Hon,” I said to Jacob. “Cats in the house are not predators.”
“What’s pred-a-tor?” asked Tommy.
Regardless, we all survived and no cats cornered us when play got out of hand. OK, I recall a few swats.
Surprisingly, Jacob spent more time with our cats than I did. I’d find him in discussion with one, both on the floor in relaxed positions. Not unusual. I called it a genuine love for cats. He even selected a couple from the pound—all rescues—and took the ever-hopeful approach to train them.
“Dogs have masters. Cats have staff,” I reminded Jacob on more than one occasion.
As we aged, the burden of keeping cats took a toll: the bending and cleaning, care, and vet visits. Feline deaths were the hardest and Jacob, a man once wary of cats, became a best friend to many. A loss of any of those friends made him unable to function for a bit. Most importantly, neither of us wanted a cat to outlive us.
We ended up catless by attrition. A few months afterward, the vet called asking us to consider taking an abandoned, middle-aged Calico. Jacob jumped at the prospect like a man desperate for a friend.
I didn’t agree with his plan. We would be sacrificing our freedom to travel. We’d worry, as in the past, about a cat in someone else’s care. I yielded, reluctantly.
Jacob lit up at the opportunity to work his charms on his furball friend. “The last cat,” he said, before we ever took Ellie home. His appeasement of me. “I promise.”
I dismissed the statement. The man was smitten by anything with four legs.
But, Jacob knew. The “last cat” would be his last cat.
That final summer into Fall, Jacob and I spent time reminiscing and reflecting on life’s lessons. Old memories revived, questions never asked now answered, mysteries unraveled. Animals, a topic of conversation, as always.
I knew Jacob had a dog as a youth.
“Oh, yeah. I was seven or so when Pudgie arrived as a pup. We had a lot of years together. We bonded. He slept with me and followed me as I rode my bike around town, even to school.”
“He stayed at school?” That didn’t make sense.
“By my bike. Outside. The entire day.” Jacob looked so lost in the telling. An old friend in memory. “Winter challenged my mom to keep him inside. He’d break free and find the school on his own and sleep in the snow.”
“Wow. The quintessential dog story.”
“He was the only dog in town allowed in the public library,” said Jacob proudly. “He made a fuss at the door the first time I started doing homework there. The librarians relented. They knew Pudgie.”
“But no cats in your life.”
“Nope. As a kid, I kept my distance” he said. A soft hesitation in his voice.
What an odd remark. “Kept my distance?”
Jacob looked like he’d been waiting to tell me something. That “can’t-keep-it-in” look on his face.
“Pudgie didn’t do well with cats?” I asked.
“No.” Long pause. “Actually my mother decided we would not have cats. Never, at least until my brother got older.”
Hmm? “Tell me why?” I asked.
“I was six and Mom had just given birth to my brother. I’d been begging for a cat for weeks. Something to do with a cute cat commercial. Before the ubiquitous cat videos.”
“Ah, so getting a cat at that time would be a trouble for Mom. Underfoot, breaking it in…”
Uh oh. I sensed a confession coming. All of Jacob’s facial muscles sprung into action.
“Not exactly. Cats, my mother told me, can suck the breath from a baby when he sleeps.” He didn’t smile. “Well, not all cats—and not all babies.”
“That would have set off a few alarms, I guess. For Mom. Maybe the authorities would have to reduce the domestic cat population.”
Jacob didn’t laugh. In the spinning of his story he became lost in thought—or a medication haze.
No response, followed by no basis for this fact. “My mother said I needed to know. At some point, I would have children. You know.”
I nodded. Jacob and I had Tommy. He survived. “But clearly you never took her advice?”
He looked at me as if to lighten this up, a little eye roll. He probably saw me relax a little and smile. “But, I believed her…at first.”
“Are you telling me you know of a cat that sucked a baby’s breath?”
“Oh, no,” Jacob said quickly. “I wouldn’t accept that theory until I could prove it. Or rather, disprove it.”
I checked the clock. This discussion might end up a marathon. “And how did you prove it, or disprove it?”
He looked at me as if I had the answer. “Experimentation.”
“I see.” I didn’t.
He said nothing.
Until I could prove it No! It dawned. I stood involuntarily. “You watched Tommy while he slept? And the cat? Our child? That was the experiment?” Anger as a strange emotion in our relationship burned inside me. “Why didn’t this come up when Tommy came along? Why not tell me?
Jacob looked as though he were in physical pain. “I’m sorry, Hon. I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“You didn’t think to—“ I shook my head to maybe clear it. His disease would excuse only so much.
“This was the third year of our marriage. I plead stupidity.”
Any anger vented and I relaxed. I did not want to argue with my husband as he approached death. Tommy turned out okay. The idea of the cat behavior made no sense.
“Plea accepted.” And that ended it.
The waning weeks of Jacob’s life raced by. Lots of talk. Good food. Visitors. Even a few short outings.
Tommy came often.
“If only all our days could go so well,” Jacob admitted.
He seemed to have a firm grasp on his situation.
“I envy you, Jacob,” I said to him one rainy September day. “You’ve not given up control of your life. Others clutch wildly any means to prolong the inevitable.”
Jacob looked directly at Ellie by his side on the loveseat, one paw extended with a sonorous purr action. “We have choices and means. And with age and illness comes wisdom. Some revelation comes late in life.”
“What are talking about? Means? Wisdom? Are you keeping something from me, Hon?”
He smiled, almost playful. “No, you’ll find out in your time. That’s the way life works.”
I did a double take I felt in my neck.
I’m almost certain the cat said,“Yep,” to that.
Jacob looked so placid. Still talking to the cat. Or sitting quietly in breathing in synchrony with the beast. It had to be the meds.
Yet, the disease advanced with more symptoms, all as described by the doctor. When Jacob slept, as he did more often, I tended to affairs of the house. Jacob made many arrangements and sometimes I found myself duplicating his actions. The man never told me everything.
I loved cats. Always have. This last cat acted as aloof as any cat, but I could not bridge the gap.
When I entered the room where she slept, she invariably fled. When with Jacob, she stayed under his protective arm, but with one eye peeled. Ellie did not take to my touch. That was mildly annoying since I was the one who initiated Jacob to cats.
Sometimes she watched me. Those moments when you know you’re being watched.
Jacob had maybe six weeks to live according to the schedule. In October, he had lost much of his mobility as muscles weakened. We managed pain. I experienced growing weariness. Waiting for—an end.
On a sunny day late in mid-October, Jacob lay dead. He reclined on the loveseat in the sunroom. As if frozen in place. Reminiscent of a painting of a lord by some Old Master only this was my husband.
The sunlight artistically framed Jacob against a backdrop of brushes of green and fading colors through the windows. Flowers losing bloom, hanging on. Season’s end. Life’s sunset.
Only the pillow lay askew on the floor below him. Next to the cat who glared at me.
I knelt at the loveseat and took the mirror my husband used to comb his hair. When I held it at his open mouth for half a minute, no fog formed. His eyes were wide, empty.
Unbeknownst to me, Jacob had willed his body to medical science—a grandiose beneficiary—and pathologists descended on his remains in the two days after his death. Arrangements were made, and his body was transported.
They made their examinations and cuts and recorded their conclusions.
They had not expressly been looking for it, but cause of death was determined.
Afterward, a few questions remained. For some people, the cause mattered a great deal.
Asphyxiation. Not expected. His lungs and airway were clear. Other people took an interest. One, a lawyer. Technically, an inquiry was conducted, but not an investigation.
One day in early December, with snow covering leaves that Jacob would have raked, the inquiry ended. Officially.
My son had left for Madison after a visit. Ellie and I occupied a chilled house. The noisy furnace needed attention.
This is the last cat.
I awoke that night in the light of the Long Night Moon filtering through my bedroom window. I lay flat on my back, hearing breathing, my dream blending into life. I had been running free. An animal, leaping with eyes wild. I slowed my breathing, but it was not mine I heard. The rhythmic trill continued.
I opened my lids at that instant and looked up. Just over the top of my pillow. The green eyes. Wild.
Wisdom. Ah, Jacob. The cat got it, at last.
One thought on ““The Last Cat,” He Said by Peter Toeg”
Sweet and unexpected. Lovely.
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