Eradication of an Inconvenience

Marcel the cat in silkier, shinier days.

Marcel the cat had an appointment with the infinite today. I made it myself, coaxed him into the cat carrier, took him over to the vets and had him killed. I have to say it that way in order to connect it with the guilt I'm feeling about it. And all this over a cat that I really never liked and he never liked me.

Oh, I developed a warm spot for him in my heart. But he was a biter and a scratcher, and it had to be his way to no way at all. When he would hop up onto the couch to sit next to me, I always made sure there was an obstacle between us, because even placing a paw on my leg could result in his talon-like claws sinking into my flesh.

On the whole, our relationship was a standoff. I can remember how shocked Steve was when I whacked Marcel upside the head the first time he bit me. "If he wants to find out who's boss," I told Steve, "I'm more than happy to show him. And I'll always win, because I'm bigger and smarter, have opposing thumbs and consumer purchasing power."

It took Marcel about two or three years to realize I was not just an interloper in his world. It took him less time to realize that I, unlike Steve, would not put up with his blitzkrieg of biting and slashing out.

As you can see in the photos, he was once a handsome cat, black fur shining. Those who had encountered him in recent months knew about the matted fur on his haunches (he stopped bathing about the time Steve left the house after his fall last September). And after Steve died, Marcel realized that I was the only human on the planet that gave two shakes about him.

I fed him and watered him and cleaned his cat box and brushed him (but only the places he wanted brushed) and made "his chair," where he spent the majority of his time, a soft and comfortable place. When he started peeing and dumping just anywhere he wanted, I was concerned. During the remodel, I dragged the litter box up into the office, along with food and water, so he would not be disturbed by the workers. Then he started throwing up his food about 50 percent of the time. I would chalk it up to all the hubbub of the remodel, except they were rarely upstairs. On top of everything else, it seemed like Marcel was beginning to unwind.

I keep mulling the decision over in my head: Did he really have to die? Well, no cat rescue place I called would take him. The Pasadena Humane Society wouldn't take him because he wasn't adoptable. No one I knew wanted him. He had spent his entire existence being a feline island unto himself, and at the end of his life his isolation was complete. Even Patty, the younger cat, was hesitant and cautious around him, because he would lash out at her (especially since she's getting the attention and affection he wants but I am unwilling to risk proffering).

When I filled out the authorization form at the vet's, I noted that Marcel's birth year was 1997. I was floored. That makes him 17 years old. I've never had a cat last more than 14 years. It made me realize that he'd had a good run, and it was all the more reason I could not drag him a couple thousand miles in the car, cooped up with Patty, and expect him to survive with any sanity left.

On the throw that protects furniture from those claws.

The biggest problem with Marcel, though, was shedding. Especially since he had stopped grooming himself, clumps of fur would fall off him, even though I brushed him daily. I could vacuum the entire house and, within an hour or two, the clumps of hair would start showing up, clinging to the carpet, skittering in a puff of air along the bamboo floors. How could I show the house with cat hair and the smell of fresh cat excrement and urine permeating the air? I'm still rationalizing the death. I'm still asking Steve for forgiveness.

Marcel's favorite hobby was to eat this own hair clumps off the floor or off the rug. He would not take the time or effort to clean himself, you understand, but once he had deposited hair in his environment, all of a sudden he was preoccupied with it. It really bugged me, too, because Patty has taken up the same behavior. Maybe I'll get her some cat grass (which Marcel loved because it made him puke on the spot).

So now I can unfurl the PetTube I purchased for Patty's ride in the back seat to Wisconsin. When I opened it up the first time, Marcel immediately went inside it and pissed all over, then went and dumped in the corner of the bedroom, then pissed all over the paper the painters had put down to protect the carpeting. That, I believe, was my breaking point; that, on top of the stress of having these PEOPLE wandering through my house, leaving the doors wide open, flies buzzing in and out.

We couldn't have the remodel in the autumn, winter or spring, when opening the house doesn't mean having a sauna to live in for the next four weeks. That kind of misery only happens in the hot summer months. And here they are. I just hope this doesn't end up with me trying to drive cross country in the winter months. That would not be fun.

In any case, my most unpleasant chore of the process of selling this house is over: Marcel is with his maker and, if you believe in animal souls, is up in heaven clawing and biting Steve, both of them happy to be reunited again.