Nothing Gold can Stay

I believe Robin, my almost-twenty-one-year-old cat is nearing the end of his life. He was born on my parents' dining room floor. His mother was a skinny Siamese named The Lizard, Liz for short. She went into heat before she turned one and escaped one day. Days passed. We thought she was a goner, but since she had the loudest voice of any creature we knew, my father and I walked around the block, the next block and the one down by the railroad tracks, yelling, "Lizzzzz! Lizzzzz!" At home, she would call back, "Wowwwww!" But there was no reply, and we believed that since she was so enchanting and otherwise bizarre in appearance (when she was an infant, she seemed more reptilian than feline; hence, her name: The Lizard), that perhaps someone had swiped her, and if we just called her named loudly and often enough, she might hear us and go to a window inside someone's house and call back, "Wowwwww!" But she did not.

Several days later, we heard "Wow! Wow! Wowwwww!" outside the screen door in front of the house, and there she was, dirty, bedraggled, hungry and overjoyed to be returned to her kin (as she knew us). Several days later, the outcome of her prior disappearance made itself known as we noticed that her shape had changed. A bit more time passed, and it appeared as if Liz had swallowed a cantaloupe whole; her cat belly protuded on both sides. Some more time passed and my parents became grandparents of seven half-Siamese/half-unknown kittens. One of those kittens is my Robin.

In his prime, Robin was a big sleek cat, a large sinewy black version of a Siamese--with his mother's voice and desire to converse. In my third year of law school, I acquired him when I moved to an apartment in Wayne. At my present age, I cannot imagine what I must have been thinking, but I was much younger then....and it seemed only right to adopt another cat so Robin would have a "friend" to be with when I was away. At the animal shelter in Teterboro, I adopted Annabelle (named after Jerry Garcia's daughter or was it Edgar Allen Poe's love interest?), a smaller version of Robin with a round face. They enjoyed each other at first, slept in a heap, bathed each other and all that. Things were good the first year. But during the Summer I studied for the bar exam, I one afternoon left the sliding door open to the balcony and something strange happened. The cats often sunbathed together on the balcony. In fact, when I played tennis on the town courts beneath the balcony, I would often look up and shout, "Hey, Robin!" and he would cheerfully respond, "Wow!"

So one afternoon, I went into the bedroom to take a nap and Robin awakened me, jumping on the bed and screaming, "Wowwwww!" I pushed him off the bed and turned over. He got back on and screamed again. Finally, I got up and groggily followed him into the living room. He trotted out to the balcony and looked down, screamed, "Wow! Wow!" and ran back in. And out. And in. Hysteria! I followed him out to the balcony and looked down as he was and saw, three floors down in front of the back door to the apartment building, a little black cat in the road . She was crying. How odd, I thought, that someone would leave their cat out there. So I went down to check it out and, lo and behold, it was Annabelle. She had managed to jump off the balcony, survive a three-story fall and somehow knew to wait by the back door.

After that, I sent her to stay with my parents for a month until I completed the bar exam. When she returned to Robin and me, she was grateful, but Robin had no interest in her at all. Although she was a member of the pack, she became merely one to be tolerated. He only had eyes for me.

In 1996, the three of us moved to a big house in Kimberton. Many changes. We acquired a man named Jim and an Australian Shepherd puppy named Colin. We lived together for some time, the five of us, and everything was pretty good for a while. A few years later, there came yet another addition, a baby boy, and then there were six. Jim and I reached a breaking (up) point, so then there were five. Several years ago, on the same day in April, Jim and Annabelle died. I buried Annabelle in the kitchen garden in the back yard. Jim was buried in Valley Forge. So then there were four. Last year, Colin died at age ten from lymphoma. For a while, there were only three of us in the big house. After a few months, I missed having a canine companion, so I adopted a Catahoula Leopard Dog, named Cat. Once again, there are four of us.

During the years Colin and Robin lived here, the two were inseperable. They followed me everywhere, around the yard and to neighbors' houses....I remember looking out a neighbor's screen door only to see Robin and Colin sitting on the front step, looking in, waiting for me. And Robin obviously thinks he is a dog. He loves dogs. He comes when he's called. He happily made appearances at every one of Colin's birthday parties so he could socialize with the other canine guests. After Colin died, Robin was never the same. Something was missing. Something big. His best friend was gone.

He doesn't mind the new dog; he accepts her, but she is still somewhat a puppy....boisterous and exuberant. He can no longer play those puppy games. He's wobbly now, spends most of his time sleeping on a heating pad and makeshift bed I made for him on the dining room floor. He no longer goes up the stairs and jumps on my bed. He can't. He tolerates when Cat licks him from head to toe. I believe she thinks she is comforthing him.

I wish I could comfort him. I wish I knew what to do. I hold him often. He purrs. I kiss the top of his head. He purrs. I talk with him. He leans against me now....just walks up to me and leans against my legs.

Today, he had no interest in food....I bought him treats....roast beef and crab sticks....and various cat treats....I gave him milk....he wants none of it. He is tired and so old. I can only wait and see.