BRATTLEBORO — Our cats were both 19. We knew that our days with them were numbered, that at that age, for any cat, life itself is a terminal illness.
But in the end, when they died, it wasn't any easier.
My wife Susi and I had adopted Kaatskill from the animal shelter at the dawn of our married life in 1996; Goldberry came to our door on a bitter winter night, cold and hungry, gaunt and covered with sores, just a few months later. They've been with us through thick and thin, through two apartments and a house, through the ups and downs of almost two decades.
One day in March, Susi noticed that Goldberry was breathing rapidly. We took her back and forth to the emergency vet.
Despite everyone's best efforts, within a week, Goldie's symptoms were worsening. With no treatment working, with any scenario indicating something horribly wrong, and with the cat breathing with such labor that her nose started bleeding, we wrapped her up in a blanket, cat bed and all.
As Susi drove, I got to hold and comfort Goldberry. We took her to the vet in the dead of night, and she was relieved of her suffering with compassion and professionalism.
This persistently befuddled, delightfully goofy cat had brightened our days with her merry and chipper personality. She was wonderfully bizarre: she would escape from our second apartment and - of all things to choose after a jailbreak - she would sit in our neighbor's used motor oil, and it turned out she had a taste for both Tabasco sauce and cantaloupe. She held her tail like a question mark until the last couple of days, when it drooped on the floor behind her, a true sign that we were losing her.
Without counting the health issues that she brought with her from living in the wild, or the gastric surgery in 2001 from the 18 inches of beading wire that she decided to eat, Goldberry was the cat in the family who was in remarkably good health, or at least until she wasn't.
For several years, we had been treating Kaatskill, also 19, for a variety of ailments, ranging in severity from kitty constipation to thyroid issues to chronic renal failure.
One of my favorite type families is a beautiful and idiosyncratic face is Kaatskill, designed by Frederic Goudy for a limited edition of Rip Van Winkle, and Susi thought it would be wonderfully appropriate to name the cat-in-residence of a then-home-office-based graphic design studio after a font. Plus, I love puns.
Our fiery, irascible, bossy, and incongruously plush and cuddly girl had skirted death at least three times over the past four years but still had enough spitfire to warrant red labels reading “hostile” on her veterinary records, requiring each doctor she saw - and, man, she saw a lot of them toward the end - to don elbow-length gloves to avoid injury amid the yowls, hisses, and attempts at evisceration.
To the utter shock of the vets, she consistently bounced back from grave medical setbacks. It became a pattern. Just at the point when we would decide that Kaatskill was telling us that she wanted out, she would bounce back and fully engage, probably to mess with our minds. She skirted death at least four times in the past two years.
But on a sunny April morning, we found her lying on our bed, glassy-eyed and panting. We bundled her in a towel to take her to the vet, knowing that it was finally time to end her suffering.
This time, while I drove, Susi got to hold Kaatskill, who took her last breath less than a mile from our home. This stubborn cat left us on her own terms.
The rhythms of our days have changed so abruptly in the space of just two little heartbeats.
* * *
We are, of course, not the first couple to lose our pets. And, of course, we knew our remaining time with them was limited.
But nothing - nothing - prepared us for losing our two girls within three weeks.
We still alternately feel both cats' presence and absence in our lives. Our composure still can crack when we find an errant tuft of fur or a stray catnip mouse. We still swear we feel them nudging us in our sleep. We still don't leave the house without thinking about whether Kaatskill has been fed her prescription thyroid cat food or has had her daily injection of subcutaneous fluids. (The daily ritual, which involved luring her into a special bag, inspired far too many “the cat is out of the bag” jokes.)
And then we remember that they are reunited in our china cabinet, under a small light that shines on two beautiful wooden boxes from White Rose, the Brattleboro facility where they were cremated. We still pass by that cabinet on our way to the kitchen and talk to them.
Grief, it is said, is the price of love, and that grief has been made easier with the love and support of our family, friends, and colleagues. Kaatskill, in particular, was well-known to our respective circles of Facebook friends, many of whom followed her medical journey over the years. As is often the case, I've made friends on social media before meeting them in person.
Case in point: I took a photo in Newfane last summer and met Linda Campany, a Voices contributor and Facebook friend, in person for the first time.
“It's so good to meet you,” she said brightly. “And how is that little cat of yours? You haven't given us an update in quite some time.”
So many times - most recently just this week - I've been introduced in real life to people who already know me by my online persona. Often, our point of connection starts with this newspaper. Just as often, the first order of business is one or both of the cats.
Indeed, in the aftermath of each cat's passing, hundreds of friends - literally, hundreds - offered comfort and kind words. We so appreciate the far-flung community of people who understand the role of our animal friends in our lives. They know the loss that comes with their departure can run deep and strong.
* * *
Susi and I were, of course, so lucky to have had both of these wonderful cats in our lives for so many years. They lived their cat lives well and honestly, and - I hope - we helped them live them happily and healthfully.
Out of the gate, Susi had an easier time bonding with Kaatskill and Goldberry than I did. As the two critters aged, they required so much more attention, so much more interaction, and as I became the designated administrator of fluids and transporter for veterinary emergencies, something happened. They mellowed with me. They either became easier to communicate with - or, more likely, I found the right place in my heart to connect with them.
They brightened our home. They comforted us, entertained us, baffled us. They tested our patience, our love, our commitment to them.
And they taught us. As they became more fragile and older, they compelled us to have tough conversations about death and the meaning of life. They reminded us of their fleeting time here and compelled us to appreciate them to the fullest, in the moment. I'd like to think in doing so, I experienced the capacity of these animal friends to make us better animals ourselves.
That's an enduring and profound lesson for us all.
Our hearts are heavy but full. Our home is quiet. But I imagine it won't be for long. A lot of strays out there could use a good home.
Thanks, girls. Thanks for everything. We miss you.