The Pledge

I knew at some point he was going to leave me forever. I didn’t know the date exactly, but after nearly 23 years Hank and I had seen better days, and his health issues that started about a decade earlier were beginning to take their toll. I had mixed feelings about how I was going to deal with his decline and death. After all, it’s only been within the last few years that we have begun to understand that losing a cherished animal companion can be just as profound as losing a parent or a child. Unfortunately, you can’t take off any time from work when your beloved cat or dog dies, like you would be able to with a human relation or, at the very least, you can’t use a bereavement leave because too many people still think that our “pets” (which is such a patronising word for someone who provides unconditional love and companionship) are worthy of our grief. And while I didn’t have the luxury of bereavement pay for Hank, I knew that I could take off the time when it came.

Hank came into my life, as I said almost 23 years ago, at a crossroad in my own life. I had gone through a very messy divorce from a violent abusive husband to whom I lost everything, including the right to see my twin sons, whom I loved more than anything in this world. Needless to say, I had no ability to trust and certainly less ability to be vulnerable to anyone. So you can only imagine my surprise when, one night after working a double shift in my local bar during one of the heaviest snow storms in nearly 25 years, which dumped over four feet of snow over a two-day period. If that wasn’t awful enough, the temperature began to drop quickly until the next day day after the storm passed, to -15°, and that was without the windchill. I turned the corner as fast as I could to get to my apartment, when I saw a medium sized box at the door to my building. I was going to move it out of the way when I heard a noise inside it. I remember moving it inside and noticed it was somewhat heavy but moveable. As I moved it further up the stairs to my apartment, I heard mewing noises, so I got the box to my door as fast as I could and opened the door. As soon as I was inside, I opened the now somewhat torn and snow-soaked box, I saw a mother cat and four tiny kittens, one calico, two black ones, and the ginger boy I kept and called Hank. I remember the mother being somewhat thin but otherwise healthy, but the calico and one of the black kittens had already died, which already made me sad, so I concentrated all my remaining efforts on keeping the other two alive. I remember calling my friend Callisto, who was an animal rescuer at the time and had the great fortune of living one floor above me, explained the situation, and she came down to my apartment. Callisto brought with her a small heater and and a drier box, because I told her I didn’t have any, and we put the mother and the two surviving kittens in it. She also brought a couple of bowls with some food , so the mama could eat and drink some fresh water. Yet all the while she was getting them comfortable, I couldn’t help but look at the ginger kitten. He seemed so small at the time, but he was also bigger than any of his siblings. 

   I remember crouching over the box to look at him. He looked so much like the ginger cat my father got me for my 12th birthday, whom I named Frank, after Frank Sinatra, because my father was a big Sinatra fan. Unfortunately, just before my 18th birthday, a fire burned down the house, killing both my father and Frank, not to mention his priceless collection of early jazz recordings which also burned in the fire. Papa was the music teacher at my high school and had a local jazz band that toured throughout the New England area. My mother died when I was five years, along with my younger brother in a car accident, so it was just papa and me, and mum was the love of his love life. Still, papa gave me a good life even though he never remarried. 

  I had an instant flashback to Frank and remarked to Callisto at the time that the ginger kitten looked just like Frank and remembered thinking back at the time he died that if I ever got another ginger cat I would name him Hank, after my father, who actual name was Enrique, but everyone called him Hank, which he didn’t like at first but it grew on him. Over the years and through the messiness that became my life, I knew I would want another cat or two, but I never expected to get another cat this way. Still, I was elated I may finally get my wish to have a cat again and get to name him after my dad. 

As the weeks wore on after I rescued them, the mama cat and the other black kitten also got stronger, and we found also found a good spot to bury the two dead kittens, which was under a pine tree in the back garden that hadn’t been affected by the snow, although it took us a couple of hours to dig a hole deep enough to accommodate them due to the ground being frozen. 

A couple of months went by, and as the deep chill of yet another Midwest winter turned into a tentative spring, I remember sitting at my dining table reading a book when Hank came up to me and nuzzled his little, wet pink nose on my left hand, I was reminded again how Frank would do the same thing when I was either reading or playing my cello. I remember saying to Hank, “you know I named you after my papa, whom I miss very much.” He looked at me with those big yellow eyes and just like that, I think he understood he needed to be in my life after everything that had I had been through with the divorce and the custody battle, not to mentioned the depression I fought throughout college, which was only exacerbated during the marriage. Hank looked me knowing I needed to be healed in a way that no therapist in the world would ever be able to do. It was at that point that I decided that Hank would become my life companion. Since I could no longer be a mother to my sons, he would be the one I could give the love that anyone, human or cat deserved. 

Over the next 23 years, I left my my job at the bar, went back to university to get my degree and worked for about three years as a travel writer for Condé Nast. Hank was my ever faithful companion and became a favourite talking point in my columns, where I had many readers ask about Hank and how he’s liking every new destination we went. However, the years of wanderlust (and a bad back from an accident I had in 1997 when I fell off my moped turning a corner on Princes Street in Edinburgh, where they sent me to to write about Fringe during the festival month), made me trade the life of an itinerant writer and go back to school, and I decided to get my MFA at Glasgow Art School, then my PhD in Art History at Glasgow University. All the while, through all those travels, backpacking adventures, hikes up mountains and down to seas and oceans, Hank never left my side. I made a promise to him all those years ago when I found him outside in that snow-soaked box half-frozen that I would never leave his side, that I would be there for him until one of use reached the end of our respective roads.

I’m now at that very crossroad, and it’s Hank who will be leaving this world before me. The first signs of his declining health came about ten years ago when Dr Christakis diagnosed him with diabetes. It was definitely the increased appetite and the weight loss that tipped me off. I only recognised the symptoms, because my father was also diabetic. Hank is the reason I was also able to open up again after being single for so many years, and for that, I will be forever grateful to him. I followed all the advice she gave me about caring for a diabetic kitty. I remember asking Dr Christakis if his diabetes would shorten his life span, but she assured me that, with proper care and making sure he received a high protein low-carb diet, he could expect to have a normal life span. And it was at an appointment for Hank is where I met Callum. At the time, he was married, but the marriage was clearly on the rocks and heading toward as messy of a divorce as mine was many years earlier, except his added the spectacle of being splashed all over the major newspapers, including even the sanctified grandes dames, The Guardian and The Times, because he was a former England and Saracens rugby player, and she was a international model who graced all the major glossy fashion magazines and worked with all the major designers. I only read about it, because it was literally everywhere, but I also ignored it, because it just didn’t interest me, and I hate public spectacle. I even remember saying to myself, “get over this pish and report on something that actually matters, like climate change or the Tory government’s efforts to destroy the NHS, you know, actual issues needing actual stories.” 

Callum had come back to see his sisters, and he was there one day with Sheryl, his older sister and her beautiful calico Maine Coon cat I found out was named Graínne, named after the great sixteen century Irish pirate queen, Graínne NiMhaoilaigh. We talked briefly and while we exchanged some pleasantries, I only got his name and put him out of my mind almost for two years, thinking he wouldn’t be interested in someone who didn’t look like a supermodel. I also had bring Sancho, my calico Maine Coon for their annual immunisations. Sheryl noted that I also had a Maine Coon, but I said to her that Sancho is a rarity, because he is a male calico. Again, pleasantries were exchanged, yet I didn’t read anything into it. Little did I know that two years later, as I walked Hank and Sancho along Princes Street near the Scott Memorial that I would see Callum again who was walking his Torbie Persian, Mochi. We talked for about 20 minutes and exchanged numbers. However, I noticed that during that short time, our three kitties began to play with each other, even though we made certain they stayed on their leashes. Just before we departed, Callum and I looked at each other, and something told me to give him a chance. We arrived home about 25 minutes later and, as I removed their leashes and harnesses, Hank gave me this look as if to say, “c’mon, Mum, give him a wee chance.” And so I did.

Here I am, five years later, sitting with Hank in the waiting area of Dr Christakis’s office with Callum being my support. I knew this was going to be a really rough day, because this was going to be Hank’s final journey before he crossed over to Rainbow Bridge. When the vet tech, Mhairi called me and told me to go the end of the hall and turn to last room on the left, I almost felt my knees buckle from underneath me. If it weren’t for Callum being there, I think I would have fallen down right there, in a heaving sobbing wreck. We sat down, and Dr Christakis took a look at Hank for a moment before turning her head up toward me.

“I know this is the hardest thing you’ve probably done in a very long time, but for the sake of Hank, you know that you have to let him go.”

  “I know,” as I began to fight back the tears and the increasingly dry lump growing in my throat. “I know I’m doing what’s best for Hank, and I don’t want him to suffer anymore.” While I had no illusions as to how this was going to happen, having lost three friends in the last four years, including one to dementia when he was only 63 years old, I was still not prepared to deal with the waves of grief when Dr Christakis began to describe to me how she would administer the drugs that would end his life. In fact, I was all but oblivious to her voice, nodding only occasionally in blank acknowledgement, as that dry lump in my throat began to move into my lungs. Somehow, I managed to muster enough strength and asked her, “Can I have a couple of minutes alone with Hank?” She nodded in agreement. I then looked at Callum, but I didn’t have to ask him, and they both left the room.

I held Hank close to my chest, sobbing the entire time. “You’ve been my sweet, sweet boy for so long; I don’t know how to live without you,” I said through my tears and the dry lump which began to take over my entire body. “But I remember all those years ago that I made a solemn pledge to make sure you had the best life I could give you.” “I said I would never leave you side until the end. And when my time comes, I want to have our ashes put together and buried forever, because I don’t ever want to think that I would ever miss your sweet purrs, your goofiness, you sitting on my keyboards, or my books.” If there is a heaven, I can’t imagine being there without you right next to me, as we journey onward.” I paused for a moment, looked down at Hank and said “I never knew I could love anyone so much as I’ve loved you for all these year, and if it wasn’t for you, I would have never been able to be open to love another person again.” I felt Hank’s body heaving slowly, his breathing becoming more shallow but purring louder than I ever heard him purr before. 

As I held him my to my chest, I remember only rocking him slowly, before I heard Dr Christakis and Callum come through the door. 

“I am going to miss you so, so much, my sweet baby boy; you will always, always be in my heart and my home, I promise this to my own final breath.” It’s never going to be good-bye, sweet boy, I promise. I’ll see you later, my sweet lovely boy.”

As I said the final words to Hank, Dr Christakis had the syringes prepared to give Hank the two shots, the first one to stop his heart, and the second one to end his life. As she gave them in quick succession, I couldn’t stop sobbing and never noticed Callum holding me until Hank’s body went limp, and then my body suddenly became as heavy as the world which Atlas carried on his shoulders. I fell into Callum’s arms and sobbed for what seemed was hours, but was only about 15 minutes. 

I sat on the floor for several more minutes, numbed from sobbing, not realising how cold the floor was in the exam room. Dr Christakis gave Callum some instructions about getting Hank cremated, and when we could come to get the box with his ashes. Callum picked me off the floor and I did my best to compose myself, even though I knew I was going to be a complete wreck. We make to the parking lot, where he put me gently in the car. He then enter the car slowly, reaching over to wipe the tears running from my cheeks, and then we drove off.

A week later, I got Hank’s ashes and had bought an urn from the undertakers. It had a photo of Hank in the front and back, dates of approximate birth and death and, his paw prints underneath his picture. It was a blue vessel with silver Celtic cats flanking on the sides of Hank’s photo. Callum and I brought the urn in, where we put Hank’s ashes in and left once again.

We had a memorial for him a few days later at my house. Nearly 50 people came to hear me speak about Hank. I didn’t want to make this some long drawn out affair, because my nerves were still pretty raw from Hank’s death, but I also made another pledge to him that I would be as brave in all my remaining days as he was in his final days. It was the one final thing, my final promise to Hank that gave me peace and closure.