Punk

It's a sad night in our house, because Jude's 14-year old cat, Punk, was put to sleep by our veterinarian this evening.

Punk had been sick for a while and had undergone a couple of surgeries to remove tumors after being diagnosed with sarcoma several months ago.  We knew it was only a matter of time after his last surgery before we faced the inevitable and, more importantly, we knew it was the right decision because Punk was not doing well the last few days and, especially last night, was showing signs of discomfort.  Still, it was a difficult decision for Jude and she was upset when she returned home from the veterinarian's office.

14 years ago, Jude and her best friend, Cyndi Baines, picked up Punk (picked him out, actually) at "Love at First Sight," an animal shelter on Murphy Road in West Nashville.  He lived with Jude in a small, 1 bedroom apartment off Old Hickory Boulevard ("the Players' Club"), then moved with her to her first house on Russell Street in East Nashville.  Finally, he moved with her into our house on Elliott Avenue, where we live now.  Punk went from living with Jude, alone, to living with Jude and me, after we got married, then to living with 2 other cats in our house.

As is so often the case with rescued and stray pets (dogs or cats), Punk was devoted to Jude, the person who rescued him.  Others, including me, he tolerated, at best, but he absolutely loved Jude.  I was thinking today that tonight would probably be the first night in 14 years, when Jude was in town, that Punk wouldn't curl up next to her in bed, when she goes to sleep.

The past few days, as reality set in that the end was near for Punk, I've done a lot of thinking about how I feel about him and about how people's relationship with their pets, generally.

Particularly in the early years of my relationship with Jude (12 years and counting), Punk didn't really even tolerate me.  If I was at Jude's house, I would rarely see him.  He was always skittish, so he would typically stay hidden from me.  Certainly, he wouldn't approach me or allow me to pet him.

Our relationship improved slightly when I saved his life, more or less.  Well before we were married, I was feeding him for Jude while she was out of town.  I stopped by one evening and saw Punk sitting under one of the chairs in the den.  He was meowing pitifully and didn't run from me when I entered the house.  I could tell he wasn't feeling well, so I took him to the veterinarian.  It turned out his kidneys were blocked and had I not taken him in when I did, he would have died from toxemia in fairly short order.

Over the years, Punk and I made our peace.  In some ways, I guess we tacitly agreed to share Jude.  We never talked about it.  It was just an understanding we had.  Part of what made me love him as much as I did, I think, was that I had to work so hard and for so long to convince him to trust me and to build a relationship with him.  I think, sometimes, it's the relationships that you really have to work at that you appreciate the most, in the end, even as it relates to pets.  It made me appreciate so much more the rare occasions when he would jump in my lap, while I was watching television, or curl up next to me for a few minutes after I got into bed, while I was reading.

Punk wasn't an easy cat, not be a long stretch, though he did mellow quite a bit with age (as we all do, I suppose).  He clawed the furniture (especially the foot rests on my leather "man chairs"), he had a "nervous stomach" (whatever that is) and routinely vomited on our hardwood floors and, even though he had long since been neutered, he "sprayed" things in the house (including but not limited to the DVD player, my alarm clock and the baseboards of the walls in certain places.  I loved him in spite of those habits or, maybe, because of them.  Occasionally, if he was pissed off or just really hungry, he tore open bags of potato chips in the kitchen, after we went to bed.  He could smell cheese a mile away and if I was eating cheese and crackers after Jude went to bed, he would magically appear beside me as soon as I sat down to watch television, with my snack in hand.  When he was younger, Jude had to put a plate over her nightly glass of milk before bed, because if she didn't, Punk would drink out of it when she wasn't looking.

If Punk were a person, he would be one of those types of people who can speak 7 different languages.  He had so many different meows - different pitches, tones, etc. - it sounded like different cats.  Sometimes, late at night, especially after we had just moved into our house 8 years ago, he would meow loudly, like a Siamese cat, for no reason.  Weird, really.  It was like he was talking to us, telling us what was bothering him or what injustice we had perpetrated upon him.

It's not going to be the same around her with Punk, no doubt.  Objectively, I realize that the thing with pets is that when one dies, it's important to remember how much joy they brought you over the course of their life.  Almost always, that outweighs the pain you feel when a pet is sick, then dies.  On one level, Jude and realize that's true.  On another level, though, we're just sad.

Punk was with us for so long, a part of the very fabric of our lives.  Now, suddenly, he's gone.  Forever.   That's hard to accept and it's sad.  But, it's life.

For a while, I'll turn my head occasionally, in the house, thinking I've seen him out of the corner of my eye, before I remember he's gone.  Then, slowly, over time, that too will pass and he really will be gone.  Somehow, that's even sadder.

Punk, we'll miss you, buddy.