We lost Archie a month and a half ago. We had him for 4 and a half years, and he was at least 11 when we got him. A family Steph knows took him when he was a full grown cat starving to death. Apparently city folks drop off cats in the country once they're no longer kittens. They called him Honey and got him nice and fat but had to give him up due to allergies. Steph took him in, and worked with the vet on a plan to save his kidneys, which fail in a lot of older male cats including our Archimedes. With some experimentation they managed to get his levels up to normal and he was actually the poster boy for an alternative treatment.
All this is just context to say that I was hesitant to adopt him but that he was a singular creature and taught me more than any teacher I've ever had and I mean that 100%. He had his claws, we had a dog that bullied him, but he never once lashed out. He was as gentle a living thing as I've ever met. He loved being alive. He valued and enjoyed his life every single hour. 1% of the time he was asking for what he wanted. 4% of the time he was considering what he wanted. 95% of the time he was relishing getting exactly what he wanted.
More than anything, he wanted two things: warmth and gravy.
He loved sunshine and hot days and laying in our rock garden. He loved finding the best spot under the blankets, between the sheets and spending hours there. He loved finding a crook in your sleeping arm and melting there. I would wake up holding a cat who was MIA when I'd gone to bed.
He loved gravy. He'd eat solid food when necessary, chew the occasionally tasty morsel, but above all he loved licking all the gravy off a can of wet food and then hopping off the counter for adventure.
I could carry him anywhere and he'd hold on to me like a sloth baby. I could bend over and untie my shoes and he'd hang upside down and not bat an eye.
When I couldn't sleep, I'd rustle him up and lay him directly on my chest. He would never fuss. I normally sleep on my stomach, but with Archie purring on my chest I'd be out within five minutes. It was like vibrating to the frequency of the universe.
He developed cancer in his nasal passages, and it was completely untreatable without resorting to things that would destroy his kidneys. We made his last few months as lovely as possible. He got to try all kinds of new food, we were feeding him roast beef and turkey bite by tiny bite. I just wanted him to make it to summer again. I wanted him to be able to pass away in the garden, warm, knowing he'd always be warm.
He didn't make it. Cats can't breathe through their mouth unless they're awake, so we had one night where I held him while he dozed and woke up constantly, sneezing to try to clear fluid. Steroids and antibiotics cleared up his breathing for a week, and we were feeling good about his chances, but after a week they shut down his kidneys. He was going to need to be hospitalized over the weekend to stabilize. We didn't want him to be alone and scared. The vet said there wasn't really any path back to health. Steph had to have him put down while I was at work. It was the worst day in so so long.
We buried him in a wooden crate, wrapped in a blanket, in our back hill. I'm going to plant day lilies there. I miss him. Together we were warm.
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