When I fell in love

When you seemed half-feral and I feared your biting and scratching and sat trepidatiously near you on the couch and thought it safe to sing a song, "When I fall in love...", and you got on my lap and purred and looked at me with lidded eyes, and didn't bite or scratch, and allowed my hand to caress your soft, black, furry back.

When I panicked and searched the house, and called out your name, and couldn't find you, and you were lying on my bed sound asleep.

When I'd call you "Mr. Felix M'Choakumchild" in mock formality, or "Schmendrick", or "Ignatz".

When I would be upstairs and heard that loose tile in the downstairs hallway and I knew you would show up soon.

When you crapped in the carrier on the way to the vet and they cleaned you up and brought you into the cold exam room in a towel, wet and shivering, and I hugged you to warm you up, and you had never felt more precious.

When I would see you wandering around upstairs and would sit down in the landing and you'd pull up beside me for endless scratching or brushing.

When you wandered slowly and aimlessly, your back legs not quick working, your eyes not working, your balance way off, unresponsive to your name, no longer climbing the stairs, and I began to sing "When I fall in love…" and you turned to look at me and lidded your eyes.

When we'd been to the neurologist, and she prescribed palliative prednisone, and we agreed, and a week later you had gotten worse, and you hadn't pooped for days, and I saw no hope, and knew that day's followup visit would likely be your last, and I broke down crying, and gave you a remedy because what could it hurt, and you slept in your covered bed for hours, and when you woke up, as we prepared to see the neurologist, you pooped and urinated, all over the hallway, and you walked like you used to, and I was never happier, cleaning up your mess and rushing to make that appointment, to an amazed neurologist who abandoned the palliative care.

When I accidentally stepped on your tail and you screeched and bit me on the wrist, drawing blood, and your old aggressiveness was back, and I was so happy.

When I'd catch you coming up the stairs as I went down to check on you, and vice versa, or I was trying to cook or use the bathroom and you were always underfoot, and even opening and closing the fridge required an awkward dance.

When I fussed with your tiny pills, cutting them in quarters, and grinding them in a mortar I had bought special, then carefully pouring the scarce powder in a soufflé cup so I could add the paté to the syringe in just the right amount, then the powder, then more paté, and you would lie down, like a Sphynx, and I would wait to see you finish swallowing before giving you more.

When three months after the neurology followup, I found you had peed in your crate and pooped on the carpet, and you were lying motionless, eyes open, paralyzed and only responding when I touched your ears, and we took you to the vet, and on that long trip, I drove while singing "When I fall in love…."

When we sat in that little dimly lit room, and filled out forms, and wrote a fat check, and we had you wrapped in a blanket, and said our goodbyes, and I sang to you, one, last, time, "When I fall in love..." just before the world ended.