Our perfect cat, Adel, is dying. He’s only five months old. The thing that is killing him is beyond our power to cure; an immuno-disease called Feline Infectious Peritonitis (or FIP for short) that will slowly crush his lungs with 40cc of fluid in his ribcage a day until he can no longer breathe. In order to save him from this slow, painful, panicky end, we will have to have him put down.
I have never experienced this type of wrenching pain. He curls up with us in the nest of pillows we’ve created on the living room floor, purring madly, happy that we’re with him, happy that we’re together. He traps my hand against his belly with his paws and I leave it there for two hours without daring to move. He wraps his tail around my ankle like a monkey’s prehensile tail and I choke back a sob. Alexandre is not faring better. We are both working from home this week and constantly breaking down into tears. It is all so, so hard. Our little cat transformed us from a couple into a family, the three of us a unit of proof against the world’s pains.
I want so much from this little cat. I want to wake up with him on my face, doing happy back flips against it, while I want to sleep a half hour longer. I want the games of fetch every morning to continue, his joy at chasing the ball contagious, making every day better as he returned it for me to throw again. I want to see how big he would be as an adult, how long and sleek his body, how improbable the length of him against me, remembering how he used to fit in the palm of a single hand. I want to take him on road-trips and offer him strange food that he will refuse and walk him through new cities in the crook of my arm, his favourite place in all the world. I want impossible things. I want him to get better. I want a future that I’ve never had and now never will.