In Loving Memory

It is a year later since my cat, my boy Anatole, died.

I wrote about it previously in the grief and support section (http://lightning-strike.com/forum/index.php?showtopic=6602&st=0&p=71129&#entry71129). It seems like it's time to put something in the memorial section of this forum.


He was a good cat.
He was affectionate and very intelligent.
He was the largest of our three cats, and was very agile, fast, and proud.
He found in me someone who had not even wanted to get cats in the first place, and in spite of that he and I developed a deep bond and a special trust.
For seven years he would welcome me home, and when I woke up I always found him sleeping next to or on me.
He guarded our youngest cat Felix when Felix was a kitten, and even when Felix was an adult Anatole continued to go everywhere with him and act as his protector.
While he was typically scared of strangers, he loved us.

I still feel troubled about unanswered questions about what happened to him and perhaps I always will.
I still feel mixed feelings sometimes about making the final decision about consenting to the lethal injection. I know it was for the best, perhaps the only humane and loving choice, but without a human voice I can only look to how he acted in that last day and hope and trust that he knew we didn't want to lose him.
He gave me his familiar 'Hey Dad' loving look in his last moments.
I stayed with him, and I held him as he died.

He was my boy and I was very proud of him.
I loved him.



Anatole
Born: ~, early 2004
Died: September 2nd, 2011


I miss you, Anatole!

Moving Away

I searched around on the net for a bit before deciding I liked the general tone I found on this forum. A friend of mine recommended that writing and sharing on a pet forum might help. I told him then that I was still feeling like I needed to do something 'more', that I didn't feel comfortable repeating conversations with friends and family. They had already offered what sympathy they could, and as much as I valued that, it didn't feel 'right' to go there again. Many people had said 'so sad' and offered their sympathy, but I still felt that since few of them knew my furry boy and since only some of them had pets, I felt mostly alone in how I faced it and dealt with it.

I want something for others to see: to show that he mattered to someone very much, and that he had a human dad and mom who loved him. I notice this forum has a memorial section. I'll probably try to write something there, too.

The reason why I'm coming to this part of the forum is because we are moving to a new home and a part of me feels quite uncomfortable about it. Another part of me longs for it. I know it will be better for me and my family in the long run.

I think despite making the mistake of bottling emotion up in the beginning I have mostly gone since then in more healthy directions. Still, there are a few things about his death that I still find very difficult to let go of. Another friend of mine said that he believes it's a certain lack of closure. I think he might be right...

My boy died on September 2nd, 2011. Now, almost eight months later, we will be moving. This is the last home we had with him. Whatever answers I had once hoped to find about what happened to him here I will have walk away from.

We named him Anatole. We read on some baby name website that it was French and meant 'from the east'. Whether or not that was accurate, he was one of two cats we picked up when living in South Korea, and it seemed to fit him in more ways than one.





I always did and still do consider myself more of a "dog person". My wife is the cat person. Still, we got cats. In spite of myself and my predispositions, it wasn't long before I had found that I had bonded with our cats.

Although our female cat and I developed an affectionate bond, too, and we would sometimes joke about how our little girl would "suck up to daddy", for whatever reason I always felt like I was closer to our male cat, Anatole. Sometimes, it almost seemed like the two felines had organized themselves like his-and-her matching towels: the girl was often found curled up with my wife, and the boy typically rested on or next to me.





For seven years he was with us. During that time, it was quite uncommon that I did not wake up to find him sleeping with his head resting on my shin or knee. When we went away on trips back then, I remember feeling like something was missing when I tried to go to sleep. I'd look forward to returning home, so my over-sized furball would be there and sleeping would feel 'right' again.

When we eventually looked at returning from South Korea back to Canada, some people asked us if we would get rid of them (meaning find another good home for them). We believed and still do believe that adopting an animal is for life and that a responsible person will only give their companion to a new family if they feel they have no other choice. It was a great hassle getting the papers we needed and then getting them through Korean and Canadian customs, but they made the trip frightened but intact and stayed with us.

When I think back, I often look to this as perhaps the first memory I have to tell myself that I was not in the habit of giving up on him.

Things went well after a period of adjustment to our first apartment back in Canada. Eventually, we got a third cat when we saw a notice that someone had found some strays with no surviving mother and was looking for homes for them. Felix joined our family, an adorable mixed-breed Maine Coon. Apparently, Maine Coons are noted for their dog-like behaviour. I don't want to change the focus from Anatole, but let's say that a cat acting like a dog pulled on my heart strings and I was soon paying a lot more attention to Felix than the other cats. I began to worry about Anatole. I wondered if I should feel like I was forgetting about my bond with him and if I should feel guilty, or whether he might feel like the newcomer was stealing his special relationship with me. Silly thoughts, I suppose, other than worrying about cats getting jealous. Anatole turned out to be remarkably tolerant of the new kitten, putting up with all sorts of unsolicited pouncing and unrestrained 'kitten play'. Anatole also started actively protecting and guarding Felix from our other cat, Kisha. This is a habit that he continued to his last days, even after Felix was full grown. Any cat so much as hissing at Felix would bring Anatole running, getting in-between, and driving the other cat away. His big adopted brother, his protector, and his friend, the two were almost always together: either wrestling, lounging, or patrolling.

This taking the young cat under his wing further shaped my feelings towards Anatole. Despite my concerns, my bond with him was never replaced by my newer bond with Felix. Although not nearly as needy and dog-like as Felix, he was still a sweetheart. We viewed all our cats as our "furry kids", and it was plain that the relationship I felt was not only one of companionship but for me was also a parental one. I started to get this 'eldest boy' feeling with Anatole. I knew I could count on him to look out for Felix.

By that time, hands down, Anatole had become the undisputed prince of cats in our house and the dominant feline. He was the biggest of our cats, the fastest, and most agile, and he was by far the smartest. Opening doors and breaking into things we tried to keep shut from him, while annoying, still made me feel proud of him.





For our second apartment, we tried moving in with a co-worker of my wife and sharing a larger place. The woman was younger than us and we found out later that despite being a nice person she didn't have exactly the same ideas as us about pets. She had a cat that we did know about before moving in, but she had not told us that she had not had her 'fixed'. During that time Anatole also developed an badly impacted tooth. He had been in a lot of pain for a long time before we had found out and got it taken care of. So between the pain, a female cat in heat, that cat contesting with Anatole over dominance for the house, unfixed males coming from who knows how far to whiz on the side of the house (due to the female going through heat cycles), and the female spending time with Felix and fighting with Anatole over that, too, well… Various behavioral problems developed for Anatole—some of which which threatened our ability to keep him. It took some time before we convinced our roommate to get her cat an operation, before we found the means to correct Anatole's new behavioral problems, and before things became easier. Moving out was a part of it, too.

I went to bed many nights fretting about whether we'd be able to keep Anatole. I went through anxiety about possibly losing him. At one point, our roommate demanded that we get rid of him. At that point I said that we would move out. Without meaning to, she and we were all at fault for putting him through what brought him to that point. It wasn't his fault. He was a part of my family and I refused to give up on him.

I often cite that moment as another example to tell myself that I was not in the habit of giving up on him.

Things were good at the new—our current—apartment for a long time. The behavioral problems vanished and he was back to his old self. Although concerned at first about cars and other animals, we had started letting our cats outside. We purposely chose a place with a long commute on the metro in order to get a quiet neighborhood—one where we felt he'd be safe going outside. The freedom to roam seemed to help him readjust, establish his need for territory, and had been a part of the process we used to make living with us normal again. He really seemed to come alive even more during those two good years. He strengthened, looked even healthier than before, had a vibrant kind of energy, and not only seemed proud but was as relaxed, calm, and gentle as he had always been if not more so.

Towards the last few months of his life with us, things took a downturn. Although, still healthy and vibrant, someone who lives very close by took issue with him. When arguments with this neighbor got bad I offered to keep Anatole locked up inside all the time if that would help. As some kind of gesture to make sure our cats were not bothering him. For whatever reason, that person never took my offer. He seemed more satisfied to go on hating my cat, like he wanted to continue having arguments with me. I think the guy is just mean spirited sometimes and is probably maybe a little crazy. Then one night I came home, after someone had stolen my phone when I wasn't paying attention. I was really upset and began to vent about it once we got home. Anatole seemed to be set off by this mood of mine. I don't know if it was just me being upset, or if the aggressive neighbor had undermined his sense of security one day and then I was the final straw.

Anyhow, he urinated on our bed. So we had to bar him from the bedroom until we were sure that this behavior was not going to repeat itself. We wouldn't be able to keep him in our small apartment if the behavior continued and escalated, so we controlled whether or not he had access to the object (our bed). Once again, I found myself fretting over whether we might lose him. We had to block the door with a heavy object because he was so good at opening doors. When he realized something was blocking him, he would stretch his long large body and bang on the handle of the door. I tried to go to sleep but it broke my heart hearing him cry and bawl to get in. I wished he could come in and rest his head on my knee as I slept as he always done for all those years, but… Anyhow, many many nights I couldn't bear it. I'd get up and go spend time with him in either the kitchen or living room. I'd get my chair and put one of my t-shirts on in. He'd jump up and curl up on it. Sometimes I'd stay up with him to the wee hours of the morning consoling him until he fell asleep, even though I might have to work early the next day.

I'd say things like, "I'm doing this because I want to keep you with us. Work with me on this. I can't lose you, OK? We'll fix this and you can sleep in the bedroom again someday. I'm sad about it too, but don't worry. I'm here. Your papa is here. I love you. I'm so very proud of you." Some might say that talking to a cat is crazy, but I do believe that at the very least we can communicate our mood, and I believe an effective way is to just talk to an animal like you would a human being. Some of my Korean students told me of something they called "nunchi" (forgive the spelling please if the romanization is wrong). The idea is that it is possible for us to understand something of what another person is trying communicate even if we don't understand a single word that is coming out of their mouth. Some glimpse of mood, intent, or disposition, through body language or some other medium is still communicated. Anyhow, he would seem to "get" my "nunchi". He'd look at me with that affectionate look that I liked to call his 'hey Dad' look, purr, and he'd eventually fall asleep. Then I would go to bed myself.

I sometimes remember this, I tell myself, yes I loved him and I wouldn't give up on him.

Anyhow, things got under control again, and everything was fine again. Until one night and the morning that followed it…

Anatole had gotten into the habit of sometimes staying out all night. I was staying up late on that particular Thursday night doing nothing important, but I didn't need to work on the following day. I felt more uneasy than usual about him staying out late. We live in a two story building with a backyard on a quiet street in a quiet neighborhood. We have the second floor for our apartment. Several times that night I went out and called for him. I walked up and down the street calling for him. I heard and saw nothing.

I never thought to check the backyard. After all, it was a safe place and if he were there and wanted to come in he would have just run up and come in when I came out and called.

The following morning, our landlady rang on our door. She seemed very distressed and said that Anatole was in the backyard. She was concerned because he was just laying down and didn't try to run when she approached, and that something seemed wrong.

We ran out back. He was there and seemed very anxious. He seemed unable to stand on his back legs.

I spoke to him, told him it was OK, and that we were there. I scooped him up into my arms and rushed him up the stairs into our apartment. Some part of me started to think the thought, what I knew it probably was, but I immediately shut it down in exchange for hoping that it might be something we could fix.

He moved his forelegs in a few attempts to stand but his back legs wouldn't work. He couldn't go to the litter box—he couldn't even hold himself up long enough to drink some water. My wife tried to help him drink because we figured he had to be thirsty, but he kept refusing to drink. He would purr a little if I stroked him and payed attention to him, but otherwise he just laid there and did nothing other than make sad sounds occasionally. It was like he had given up and was waiting. Felix immediately got worked up, started pacing around him and crying, and I couldn't think clearly. My wife said she would take Anatole to the vet's as soon as it opened, and insisted that I still go to my physiotherapy appointment that I had that day.

By the time my appointment was done, I got a call from my wife. She was crying and told me that the vet had said that Anatole's back had been broken. I took the metro over to our part of town and grabbed a cab from there—the fastest way I knew how to get there. I remember being sad and trying not to think. The rest is a bit of a blur.

The vet was very kind and spared no time trying to re-explain to me what he had told my wife. Anatole had suffered some kind of impact or trauma. He said that no matter what they did, even if there weren't other complications with waste elimination or risks associated with procedures, there was a 99% chance that he would only go on to be 1% of the cat he had been. He would never play or run again, and he would only lay on the floor. He wouldn't be able to even eat and drink without help.

I was and still am so proud of him. He had been such a vibrant and proud cat. It broke my heart.

Right there I wanted to scream. I wanted to lash out. On top of everything, I suspected that hostile neighbor of having done the damage. So much wanted to come out and I didn't dare let it. Tears came down uncontrollably but a lot I tried to keep from coming out.

My wife told me through her own tears that she thought we needed to put him down. I respect what she must have felt to be the first one to say it. I nodded knowing she was right and I told her, "Moment…" I couldn't bring myself to say it.

He was resting on my lap as I held him and they waited on my response. I remembered a time when he had been a kitten and scared and I had promised him, and myself, that I would always look out for him and protect him, and that I would never abandon him. The result waited on my response, and I don't know how long I sat there with him unable to speak.

Finally, I was able to say the words… The next few minutes passed with me in silence holding him, as my poor wife left me with him and took it upon herself to go through the paperwork with the vet for the lethal injection procedure.
We were asked if we wanted to go home and let them take care of it by themselves and reminded us that it wasn't necessary for us to go through it. I remember saying no and saying that I couldn't leave him. I wanted to be there for him no matter what.

It's hard to describe what I remember of Anatole's behavior. I remember him being happy that we were there. Despite that he had seemed to have given up, he purred and showed the usual signs of pleasure when we patted him. He seemed comforted that we were with him. He also seemed to be reacting to all of our crying and noticing that we were upset. I remember him showing me affection, I think trying to cheer me up. A part of me thinks that as a cat he may not have understood what was going on. He kept looking at me with his 'hey Dad' looks, with all the trust that he had ever shown me. Trusting that I would do whatever I could to make it all better. Sometimes, I wonder if he understood on some level what was going on. It seemed as though some of his immense feline pride returned and at that moment he just wanted me to be happy.

In the short moments after the needle went in, one thing stands out in my memory. He held my gaze. Before that moment, if we held each other's gaze for long he would always politely defer to me and either close his eyes or turn his head away. In those last few moments he just held my gaze as I held his held his head and gently stroked him. He just purred happily and continued to look at me.

I knew what was coming, but despite that I couldn't help but say his name when it started. I gently shook him as he slipped away as if I thought I could hang on to him and keep him longer. I continued to hold him as I watched the light go out… Then he was gone.

It was a silent walk home with his empty cat carrier.

I inspected the backyard when we returned. According to the vet, he couldn't have moved from where he was found and showed no signs of having attempted to crawl in spite of it. After inspecting the yard, I found that there was nothing he could have fallen from, and nothing that could have fallen on him. There were, however, rocks and a pile of large sticks of just the right weight and size to do that sort of damage. Had he either not run away from a familiar face or had gone onto a certain porch that a certain hostile neighbor didn't want him on, he could have been cornered. One blow could have slowed him down and a second one could have left him where we later found him.

Sadly, someone attacking him in the backyard while we slept still remains the most likely explanation. The hostile neighbor remained the most likely suspect in my mind and in the minds of some others, but there was no proof, and no grounds on which to accuse him. A week before Anatole was found with a broken back, the hostile neighbor and I had had a heated argument where for the first time I began to feel worried for Anatole's safety. By the end, he seemed to have calmed down and apologized and told me to forget about feeling like I might need to keep Anatole inside, so I told myself that all was well. Anyhow, it would not be right to accuse him. After all, he might be completely innocent. We really don't know what happened. It would be wrong to accuse an old man and a neighbor of that just on a suspicion.

It could have also been, I suppose, some mean-spirited drunk or passer by that wandered in and caught him by surprise, though that seems unlikely. Even more unlikely, I suppose it could have been a large dog running loose that had caught, grabbed and shook, and then left him alone otherwise unharmed. I guess its possible, though only once in two years did we ever see a large loose dog running around unsupervised in this area.

Grieving for me was not unlike what some other people have written about. The first week was difficult. The "little ghosts" were many and very vivid. I'd remember how he used to sleep on my lap sometimes when I was in the living room and wrap his forelegs around my waist like he was hugging me. I'd see brief images of him in my mind's eye laying on top of his favorite spots as well. I felt a sensation like him pawing my leg, like he always used to when alive to tell me he wanted up on my lap, and then a second later I was shocked at how real it felt. I kept catching myself putting food in his dish out of habit when I fed the other two cats. I'd wake up in the middle of the night from sleep having heard him—perhaps in a dream, but sounding to my mind like he had been there in the apartment.

By the second week I felt the little ghosts starting to fade. It was one part relief and another part sadness. A part of me didn't want them to go away or to stop.

Eventually, I got used to expecting him to not be there anymore, but some things continued.

I still stop each time as I pass the vet's where he died. It happens to be along the quickest and most convenient route to a nearby convenience store so I end up passing by more often than I'd choose to.

When I'd come home late sometimes and my wife had already let him outside, he used to always be waiting for me either on the front steps or somewhere close by. He'd meet me halfway, welcome me home, flop on the ground for a belly rub, and follow me inside. Now the steps and street are always empty, but I still look longingly wishing that I could see him again.

When I climb the stairs to our apartment, I sometimes relive the memory of bringing him hurt and back into the house.

I still sometimes look outside to where I used to see him running around, and once again I wish that I could see him again. But I know he's gone…

I sometimes still have to remind myself that I didn't give up on him, but I know that I'm trying to cope and deal with things in a healthy way.

Sometimes the hardest thing about it all is that I really am coping and continuing to let go. Feeling guilty about being able to cope is sometimes the hardest sense of guilt to shake off.

I never found out what happened to him...

I've been living in a state of hostile suspicion around my home ever since Anatole died. I'm always watching what that neighbor is doing when I happen to see him now. We don't let our other cats out anymore. When I come home, I'm always casting a hateful glance over at the windows of where he lives. Sometimes I find myself stopping and reminding myself again that the neighbor might be innocent. The neighbor seems to have retreated more inside since then and seems to avoid coming out now. At least when I'm around...

During the time shortly after Anatole died, we tried asking all of the neighbors—even the one we suspect—if they had seen anything. I tried phoning the SPCA to see if I could at least file a report of some kind. "My cat was attacked. Assailant unknown but here's the address…" At least if there were a report, I thought, if another incident happened to another family in the future in this neighborhood and there was something for police and animal welfare groups to look into, there would at least be something already on record. The SPCA representative I spoke to here in Montréal expressed their condolences and apologized profusely, saying that they couldn't even file a report unless someone had witnessed something or there was some kind of proof.

I don't know what happened. I probably will never know.

However, I'm still left with the knowledge that my boy was likely attacked by someone who lives close by. I'm left with the knowledge that someone attacked a member of my family and broke their back. Yes, a cat, but still a part of our family and very dear to us. I really did regard myself as his adopted dad as much as his human companion. Something bad happened to my boy. Very likely that a person who lives close by attacked him and got away with it… Nothing to make it right… No repercussions, no consequences, no justice for my family… Nothing… I wanted to do right by my boy, and I came up with nothing.

This has left me with the feeling of needing to do something 'more'… Something for him… Maybe posting here to this forum will help in some way.

I feel like moving away will be good for me and my family, but...

I imagine I will likely visit the backyard where he was found and where I had picked him up that day. I'll likely sit there for some time and then eventually feel the need to go. Then I'll get in the moving van and leave this place that has been our home, and our last home with him.

I have a (human) daughter now who is four months old. I'm still stunned by how much sadness I felt for Anatole, and yet there's been so much happiness in recent months, too. Anatole, I know, would have doted on our daughter and loved her very much. I still wish he could have been here, for her to grow up with, but that will never happen now. There are reasons to be happy and ways to remember him well. Our other cats still survive him and need me, including Felix, his kitten.

Yet this... This thing still sticks with me.

Leaving this place without answers will be hard. However, the sad reality is that I will likely never know for a fact what happened to him.