When pets die

Photographer: Neil Huxtable. Own postprocessing

I grew up in the country in a household with pets. My father loved dogs and also loved mynah birds, which he kept in a cage but occasionally would let free in our large kitchen, making sure all doors and windows were shut. He was not too keen on cats but we did have a couple of strays, I was quite fond of them. It did not help that one of the cats, at some point, ate one of the mynah birds! I still remember how angry my father was when it happened. But cats are cats and do what they are meant to do and they cannot help chasing up birds and mice, no more than a tiger can be faulted for being a man eater.
I have always had a weakness for cats, more than for dogs, and always took instantly to them but never had myself any, I found I could not commit to keeping them, never had the space.  I know however how fond one can become of one's pets and how distressing it is when they die.
Today I shall tell you a story, a real one, about a cat that died of cancer...
 When I first moved to London I lived for a short while in a suburb in a cheap flat owned by a middle aged gentleman who lived in the flat below. He had no one else with him, except for his cat, who was seventeen years old. I dont remember the cat's name, it was a very usual cat's name, Bobby or Dennis or some such.
It was not a friendly cat, nor a pretty sight. Deaf and toothless, his hair was coming off in handfuls and he seemed to be covered in dandruff. He had a problem with one of his legs and only used three. He was diabetic and, so the owner told me, senile - he would occasionally growl and scratch things and people, especially his owner, whose hands and arms were visibly marked by the cat's claws.
I tried to make friends with him but he did not seem to care very much, it was the kind of cat that does not trust strangers and was extremely territorial. I did not see much of him, anyway, I was busy coming and going and within a couple of months I found myself more suitable accommodation, closer to the city centre. But I did hear the cat quite a lot, he was rather noisy.

Photographer: DG

I was deeply moved by the way the owner treated this old cat, with a respect and an affection that transcended the boundary between animal and human being. He would hold him, stroke and caress him and tickle him, which the cat apparently loved, and would feed him tid-bits.  The cat was the first thing he would think of when waking up and probably the last thing he saw at night when he went to bed.
I used to pay my rent weekly, in cash,  and I used to go down and knock on his door, usually on a Saturday morning. My landlord would always let me in and offer me a cup of tea. As he made the tea I waited in his shabby living room, very messy and quite dirty, full of books and papers. I did not know what he did for a living and to be honest I did not even care, he seemed to be well spoken and was extremely polite. This was a weekly ritual, I would have been happy to just give him the money and skip the tea - I am Italian, it was only later that I would acquire a taste for tea!  but I went along with it, I was after a receipt, which he always gave me, neatly handwritten. While he made the tea I had a chance to be with the cat. He had his basket by the radiator in the living room, just under the main window.  As he got used to me he allowed me to touch him and I tried to stroke him, I wanted to make friends with him. My landlord  told me that often the cat slept next to him, even though he had his own basket. The bond between them was apparent, it was as if the cat was his child. They even had a similar look, you know what they say about owners and their pets, there was something they shared.
 As I said, I soon moved out and forgot about the gentleman and his cat. Two months after I moved, on a cold November evening, I got a call. It was the gentleman. He asked me politely how I was. I sensed something was not quite right.  I waited for him to speak and he quietly said that his cat had died. Then he did something I did not expect.  He began to cry. My heart really went out to him but all I could do was listen. He told me how the cat had succumbed to cancer, he had taken him to the vet for a check up  but was told the cancer was so advanced there was nothing they could do. And he was offered the option of having the cat put down, which he took. The cat died within minutes of being injected. The poor thing must have been in constant pain and probably this was the reason why he seemed to behave erratically and was occasionally furious. How can animals tell you that they are in pain?
I was reminded of when Dick, my father's favourite dog, was given a heavy dose of Nembutal because he had a terminal illness. My father too was distraught, he did not cry but he was pale and about to be sick.

Photographer: Neil Huxtable. Own postprocessing

So there I was, feeling powerless and unable to say anything that could really make this man feel better. After telling me, he recomposed himself and we ended the call with the mutual promise we'd keep in touch. I never saw him or heard from him again, I never looked for him nor did he look for me.
It's been a very long time ago since this happened.  But somehow every November I briefly remember that cat, I can't help it.  Wherever he is now,  may he rest in peace. Wherever that gentleman is, may he be happy.

(All photos modelled by Alex B)