Napoleon: 1992-2007

Today, we had our cat put to sleep.

We got him was back in 1992. The family took a vote about getting a cat; the "pro-cat" faction won out. When we got him, he had a kink in the last section of his tail, and I remember my mom wanting to relate his name to it, but I came up with "Napoleon" and it stuck.

He used to love superballs when he was little. We had a wooden staircase that he would drop them down. When the ball would just about reach the bottom, he would run down the stairs after it and catch it just before slamming into the front door.

He also liked to wrestle when we wore this one blue mitten. He would bite it and dig his claws into it. He would really go wild. I think I remember him liking it less after he got declawed.

When he was little, he tried to escape a lot. One time he did get out, only to wander back a day or so later, looking really hurt -- like he'd been drop-kicked. He didn't try to escape after that, but in recent years he liked to go outside every once in a while. He would walk around the house and the yard for about an hour, then come back to the door he'd gone out of. He didn't prowl -- I guess he preferred to stroll.

Six months ago, he got really sick, and my parents were convinced he was going to die. He lost a lot of weight, stopped cleaning himself, and got so boney it was creepy to even pet him, they said. He began a surprising recovery, though, after he saw Dad cutting up some venison one day. He stood there next to him, begging, and Dad gave him one. Napoleon ate it, and apparently wanted more. Dad ended up feeding him about 12 pieces that day. He started getting better from that moment.

When I came home at the end of November, Napoleon greeted me at the front door. He seemed genuinely happy to see me. His hair was matted in some places, and I was shocked to see that he had indeed lost a lot of weight, but he seemed happy.

He'd also started begging for food whenever anyone ate anything. During dinner, he'd stretch up and put his front paws on your lap to see what you were eating. If it looked good, he'd reach out with one paw and try to pull on your forearm. It was really cute -- I'd never seen a cat beg like that before.

The problem we'd been facing was what to do about his apparent disregard for his litter box. He'd messed up the carpet in the craft room downstairs, and my parents had to have it taken out because of the smell. Either because he didn't care, or didn't have any control, we faced the possibility that even more carpets would be messed up.

Thinking that he had a bad attitude because he wasn't getting any attention, I brushed him every day, which he loved. He got better at grooming himself, and started pulling out his matted fur by himself. Still, he couldn't regain control of himself, and that meant there would be more ruined carpets.

Of the original "pro-cat" faction, I was the only one left. My sister, since moving away from home, has become allergic. My brother now has his own dog. My mother has grown less favorable to him since he's been pooping everywhere and gotten too emaciated for her to enjoy petting him.

This morning, Dad and I put him in a big cardboard box, folded down the flaps, and got into the car. He meowed loudly on the way to the veterinarian, and we falt bad that we couldn't find the travel box that would have allowed for a more dignified exit. We reached the vet's black-paneled building in a few minutes, and took him in without a word.

I stayed in the lobby; Dad took him to the back room, but didn't stay longer than a few minutes. I think we left before it happened. We drove home without saying anything, but I could tell it was hard for him, too.

I've heard it said that doing the right thing is often hard, but I don't know that we did the right thing. My head says pets are just pets, but in my heart I wonder if in his last moments he ever felt that I'd betrayed him.