In Memoriam

I was not Hermione's favorite. If you own a pet, or you know someone who does, or you've mentally ingested any popular culture, you don't need a further explanation. In the same, nearly childish way that most people favor a pet, so too with the pets and their owners. For some reasons that are easy to explain--I would often treat Hermione less like a cat and more like a dog, which means I was too rough to play with a Siamese cat--and reasons that I'll never know--maybe she was equally annoyed by a male figure in the 3 years of her life before Elyse and I adopted her--Hermione favored my wife. Hermione, as you have pieced together by now, was a Siamese cat, one of the most beautiful I'd ever seen. Her fur was long enough, but not too long. Her eyes were captivating, her meow at once obnoxious and pretty, and she passed away on Monday.

Hermione had been sick for a long time, as any living thing tends to be after a certain point. When Elyse and I adopted her from the local humane society, she was 3 years old. This was in 2006, right after Elyse and I, then engaged, moved in together while I attended graduate school in Flagstaff. Elyse was raised in a family that loved, or was obsessed with, cats. Sculptures, paintings, photos, everything. Think of a common household item, and Elyse's family had the same item, only with a cat adorned somewhere on it. I'd always wanted cats, but my family had to give back our only cat after we found out my mother was deathly allergic. Hermione was a major milestone in our relationship.

We had scanned the humane society's website on a Friday night and spotted two Siamese cats, sisters. One was 5; one was 3. Both looked adorable, and we figured it'd be best to get one as soon as we could. Siamese cats, as I would imagine even a non-cat person knows, are an upscale breed, and to find two of them in a humane society, especially two who looked perfectly normal for the breed, is rare. The next day, we found them both in one of the larger cages in the cat adoption area. I forget if it was just a whim that came to us or something more particular, but we wanted to look at the younger of the two. This would end up being Hermione.

She was shy from the get-go, but too beautiful and sweet to let go. Siamese cats are known, among many other things, for having low immune systems. We had lots of trips to the vet, both in Flagstaff and in Phoenix. With Hermione, we were able to tell our friends brightly that she had herpes. No, it wasn't contagious, but a mere example of how Hermione--potentially because of how she was brought up before we owned her or because of mistreatment at the humane society--was a cat who needed to be constantly eyed. Though I'd often play the devil's advocate, 99% of the time, when Elyse thought something was wrong with her, something was wrong.

The worst news for a while came last May, when lymphoma was found in an X-ray of Hermione by our cat-only vet. Surgery came, but just before, I found myself in the strange position of putting Hermione back in a cage. Because of our schedules, I'd had to relay the vet's news via phone and had to sign off on a weekend surgery while we went off to Disneyland. For the most part, I was unemotional about it, thinking more of the multi-thousand-dollar surgery Hermione would be subject to, with us merely hoping it'd work. When the vet asked if I wanted to say goodbye to Hermione before I left for my vacation and I saw her scared, vulnerable, stressed-out face and teary, wide eyes, I found myself nearly shaking with emotion.

As the vet technician consoled me, almost confused at my outpouring, I tried to explain that I was about as baffled as she was. Why the hell was I crying this much? The cat was going to be fine, right? Even if the surgery didn't go off swimmingly, it wasn't like she wouldn't wake up. What got me then, and still grabs me, is the image of Hermione, backed up as far as possible in a dark, dank cage. She looked frightened; all I could imagine was her thinking "You are doing this to me. Why are you doing this to me?" I never wanted her like that again, never wanted to see her in that kind of fright again.

It turns out the final decision on seeing Hermione like that came suddenly, this past Monday. The surgery had worked about as well as it could; though I don't remember being briefed on it, our vet told us that the best-case scenario from the surgery is that she'd be relatively healthy with chemotherapy medicine for 18 months. We've just past 15 months since the surgery, and only days ago did Elyse notice anything was wrong. Of course, what Elyse noticed had been staring us in the face for a while. The obvious: Hermione, never the most active cat, but not a complete slouch, was lethargic. Actually, that assumes some form of movement, which Hermione wasn't exhibiting. She would sit in a few designated spots, and just sit or sleep there. What was more disturbing in the short term was that Hermione was not eating.

When we first got Hermione, she was the kind of cat who would not only get hungry, but make absolutely certain that you knew it. Howling, mewling, regular meowing; Hermione tried every trick in the book and tried each one multiple times, but it hadn't happened for a long time. When Elyse waved treats and new food in front of Hermione's face, there was no reaction. When we put Hermione in front of the food, she didn't react. For a period, Hermione would either eat the food or walk up and paw at it, but now, she barely moved. Elyse was rightfully concerned, so we brought her into the vet Monday afternoon. From the beginning of the appointment, it was clear that our vet was worried. One thing quickly led to another, and we were presented with two options: put the cat to sleep or put her through more intensive chemotherapy.

In this case, "more intensive" meant weekly trips to an oncologist, and far more serious treatments. On the one hand, it would help out Hermione--whose cancer had not only come back and spread to other parts of her body, but who also had a collapsed lung--to live a few more months. But, on the other hand, the treatments could stop working, and fast. The vet had a dog who'd gone through pretty much the same thing, except he chose the aggressive chemotherapy. Elyse and I were already on the brink of making the difficult decision, but when she asked the vet what he'd do, he didn't hesitate: "I'd put her to sleep." This made the decision harder and simpler.

In part because I still don't want to think about it, I won't talk too much about the rest of the day, except to say that what happened next was agonizing, painful, and made me cry far more than the day when I left her for her surgery. Elyse keeps telling me something that most of me knows: Hermione is better off now, now that she's not in pain, now that she doesn't have to worry about going to the vet, or having medicine every day. I know this, but it's the little things of the last minutes she spent in this life that kill me. What gets me most, though, isn't the gradual feeling of her falling asleep on my lap for the last time (the process began with one shot, then she could sit in my lap for a time, and a second shot would follow), nor is it the fact that her eyes, her beautiful eyes, remained open long after she passed away. What gets me most is that the last thing she ever saw was the face of the one who wasn't her favorite.

Elyse was barely able to be in the room--something she'd never done before with any of her family's cats who'd passed away--but she was there. I wish Hermione'd gotten a last look at her, knowing it was her last look. I'm happy that Hermione's better, but it's not the kind of happy you feel immediately. It's especially hard today to feel anything aside from lingering grief: while Hermione passed away this Monday, today, September 2nd, is her birthday. She would have been 7. She will be missed.