Senor Quincy
After Simon died in 1995, I was not interested in having another cat in the house. Besides having the raw emotions and the sense of betrayal at "replacing" him, I was also determined not to have to live through the death of a best friend ever again.
My mother, however, loved cats and knew very well that no one would ever "replace" Simon. She was kind enough to respect my wishes, though, and for a long time there was not furry friend in the house.
By 1997, my feelings, while not having changed, had dimmed in intensity and I felt the time was right for a compromise. As her birthday approached, my brother proposed the idea of adopting a cat for my mother's birthday. To his surprise, I accepted, reasoning in my mind that this would be her cat, not mine.
So my brother and I trooped down to the animal shelter (getting lost along the way, of course) and spent the next two hours looking at cats, cats, and more cats. The setting was perhaps not the best, as the way the shelter is designed, the dogs are in cages along the outer wall, forming a "U", and the cats are in an inner-room, filling in the "U". While brick walls and doors separate the two, a lot of cats are pretty freaked out from being in a cage, with dogs barking from all sides.
My mother had never really warmed up to the idea of having a kitten in the house, because she felt they were destructive and required training. She liked the idea of an older cat who was already housebroken, and adoption is easier for kittens anyway. So with that in mind, my brother and I focused on cats who were at least two years old. While many where cute and adorable, one cat stuck out for both us.
A smoky gray colour, Quincy was actually asleep when we got to his cage, which was a switch from just about every other cat that was borderline hysterical. We opened his cage door, he looked up, and casually sauntered over to get some attention. Within about five seconds, he flopped onto this side, encouraging us to rub his tummy, enjoying all the attention. After a few minutes of this, we closed the cage and continued looking at the other cats. He looked out the cage door, seemed mildly disappointed, ate a bit of food and then went back to sleep. Since the shelter estimated his age at about four years old, my brother and I agreed that a cat this relaxed and laid-back would be a good fit.
As we were at the front desk registering him and taking care of the paperwork, two old ladies walked in and were asking questions about a cat they had seen on television. One of the local television station gives 30 seconds during its lunchtime newscast to show pictures of cats and dogs waiting to be adopted at the shelter. Quincy, it turns out, had been featured on that day's news. The old ladies were disappointed that Quincy had already found a home, but happily went to look at the other cats inside.
Our belief that Quincy was a laid-back cat was proven pretty quickly when we put him in the car. Unlike Simon, who peed, howled, barfed and generally hated being in a car, Quincy sat quietly, looking interested but not impressed. Upon getting him home, he quickly went about exploring his new home and seemed perfectly at ease.
My brother and I decided to surprise my mother, so we set out to work on a plan. We finally decided that we would tie a little ribbon around his neck and tie a little note with a birthday greeting. We would leave him in the computer room in the basement with the door closed, and then make up some pretext to get my mother to go downstairs and open the door. My brother, who has a tendency of losing things anyway, informed my mother, when she got home from work, that he couldn't find something or other, and it was really important, and did she know where it was, etc....
Well, my mother was not in the mood to go picking up after my brother again, especially since it was something so obvious. I mean, where else but the computer room would you leave something like that. We somehow managed to keep a straight face as my mother stormed down to the basement and opened the door to the computer room and....stopped. "Meow" Surprise completed flawlessly.
For the first few months, my mother opted to keep Quincy as an indoor cat, even though there were signs he had been outside. When we brought him to the vet for his first immunizations, the vet noted the tips of his ears had been damaged most likely by frostbite, with a tiny triangle missing. So my mother started letting him out tied to a leash so he could explore the backyard and get comfortable with his new surroundings.
One day in February, my mother, for the second time, let him out without a leash and Quincy went about going further into the backyard and up on the fence. Something apparently spooked him there, and he tried to jump down off the wooden fence. However, his back claw got stuck and he was back at the vet with pulled ligaments in his hind leg. While he recovered quickly, he would always walk with a limp after that.
Despite being my mother's cat, he and I got along extremely well as I would give him all kinds of attention as well as play with him. He kept all of his claws and had no reservation about using them when he no longer felt like playing. When he was particularly playful, we would chase each other around the house, with him hiding under a couch and then swiping at my feet. He also seemed to enjoy the helicopter game, whereby I would pick him about a foot off the ground and spin him around 360 degrees.
One thing he didn't appear to like was heights. If I picked him up and slung him over my shoulders behind my head, he would whimper and look decidedly unhappy. When I'd put Simon on top of the fridge, he would sniff everything there and then explore the tops of the cabinets, annoying my mother with the dust he kicked up. Quincy, on the other hand, may make a quick sniff, but generally headed for the countertop and the floor as quickly as possible.
We also suspected that Quincy had spent time around dogs before coming to our house. For fun, I would pretend to pant like a dog which would make Quincy shoot me a deranged look, stare at me for a few seconds, before running up, swatting at my foot with his claws and then running away. If you threw something down the hallway, he would instinctively chase after it, suddenly stop, look confused, and then run in a completely different direction. We never quite figured out the thought process behind his actions, but it was quite amusing to watch.
Over the next couple of years, I began to travel a lot more, leaving for months at a time. My mother insisted that Quincy looked positively bored, though he continued to sleep for 22 hours a day and drive my mother crazy with his changing tastes in cat food (unlike Simon, Quincy never showed much interest in table scraps). When I would return, speaking to him in Spanish now, he would look vaguely miffed that I had been gone, but soon enough resume his habit of treating me, and any other human, as furniture to sit and sleep on.
And he would do so in the most bizarre positions too! I would swear that he couldn't possibly be comfortable draped on my legs or knees, or shoulders, but he would always settle in and try to catch a quick nap. He actually fell asleep on my mother once while she was sitting on the couch; his rear end was airborne on her shoulder, while his front paws braced himself into her stomach.
Like Simon, Quincy was prone to fights with the neighbourhood cats, though not nearly as often or as vicious. His hunting skills were a little more dubious, or perhaps he was just lazy, as his kills tended to be baby rabbits and birds. Squirrels, however, did not interest Quincy in the slightest.
In early 2004, Quincy slowed down quite a bit, though it was unclear what was wrong with him. Trips to the vet revealed nothing in their tests, though he seemed to respond to some medications. My parents were planning a trip to Egypt to visit my brother, and since I had moved out the previous year, I would have to stop by to check up on him. A friend of mine from Colombia, Jose, was staying at my parents place as well and, while not a fan of cats, got along well with Quincy.
My parents left aware that Quincy seemed more lethargic and quiet, but another trip to the vet showed nothing in their tests and with the medication seeming to work, my parents went on their trip. The first week, he slowed down again, so I brought him back to the vet where they injected him with antibiotics instead of the oral medications he had been taking. That weekend, I informed my parents that Quincy was doing much better, as when I had stopped by the house, he had run to the door to greet me. After the weekend, however, it seemed the effect of the medications wore off and he was having trouble again. He would be usually lying down when I saw him and Jose told me he didn't move much during the day either. He had stopped eating and his only effort was to drink some water and use his litter box as best as he could. On Tuesday night, I called up his vet to report on his condition. As they were closing at 8pm, they suggested I take him to the 24-hour animal hospital, and they would fax over Quincy's files.
At the animal hospital, the vet agreed that Quincy was in bad shape and recommended he spend the night so they could do some more tests. I agreed to do so and left suddenly aware that I had to start planning for the worst, which was even worse since my parents were in Egypt.
My Wednesday at work was extremely busy, as I was supposed to be in two different Senate Committee hearings at the same time. I had kept my cell phone on "discrete" so that the hospital could call me without disturbing the committee work. The call I dreaded came in around 3pm on that Wednesday: a different set of tests pointed to the possibility that Quincy had something called Feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). In order to confirm it, it would be necessary to conduct expensive tests that would take a couple of days, but given his condition, the vet said I should consider the idea of euthanasia. FIP was a variant of the corona virus and always fatal in cats. I started to panic because, even if I thought this was a good idea, Quincy was my mother's cat and she had to make the decision. The vet felt I should get in touch with my parents because she couldn't say for sure that Quincy would make it to their return in a week.
I somehow managed to finish my day at work and when I got home, I went straight to the hospital. They were very nice and let me take Quincy out of his cage and gave me a private room to be with him. The poor little guy was generally out of it and just let himself be cradled by me. Every now and then, he would struggle to get free, making a huge effort before giving up and letting me stroke his fur and whisper to him and just cry a lot in general.
I went home and sent an e-mail to my parents and brother telling them of what had happened and asking my brother (who was working in Egypt while my parents were on vacation) to try to track down my parents if he read his e-mail that day. I was wrenched with the idea of having to make a decision on Quincy without being able to talk to my mother. I was really hoping that Quincy would make it through, but at the same time, could I really let him continue waiting to suffer while waiting to get in touch with my mother?
We often assign human qualities to our furry friends, believing them to understand us when we talk to them, sensing our vulnerabilities, consoling us, comforting us, taking on our personality. While there may never be a way to prove it one way or the other, pet lovers take comfort in thinking our friends did things beyond instinct.
Thursday morning, the phone rang around 7am, which I knew couldn't be a good sign. It was the vet, and they were telling me that Quincy had taken a turn for the worse just now, and was having trouble breathing and generally suffering a lot. They were asking me for permission to put him down humanely. I stumbled through a lame explanation that I hadn't heard back from my mother, that I would check my e-mail to see if there was anything, asking if there was anything more they could do. The vet asked me to hold, and I could hear her talking with someone and then...
then....
he was gone. Quincy died while I was on the phone with the vet.
I felt dizzy, I was finishing breakfast, getting ready to go to work, the computer was booting up, my roommates were milling about (not daring to ask what was going on). I don't remember what happened for the rest of the conversation (other than the vet giving her condolences and seeming a bit in shock herself), but the next thing I knew I was pulling out my parents itinerary and trying to track them down myself.
As it happened, I found out which hotel they were in and the phone number for the hotel. The first sense of relief was having the desk clerk confirm they were there and transferring me to their room number. Curiously, the phone rang in their room just minutes after they had returned from the beach.
My dad answered the phone and was quite surprised to hear my voice on the other end. It was a big struggle to keep myself composed and actually be coherent on the phone, but I managed to tell him what happened and asked to speak to mom. My mother asked if I was ok and I pretty much lost it at that point, just sobbing into the phone that Quincy was dead. I felt horrible since the last message they had received from me was that he was doing better. We worked out the arrangements for Quincy's cremation since that couldn't wait until they got back.
I called in sick for work that day, and went back to the vet. They asked me if I wanted to see him one last time and I said yes. They put me in a private room again and brought him in, all wrapped up in blankets. He looked so peaceful, like was simply napping. I wanted to pick him up and have him start purring again, but I could only bring myself to stroking his head and his back. He was still warm. But he didn't purr.
The logical part of my brain finds it absurd, but I still identify strongly with the belief that Quincy chose to free himself from his pain and suffering, but also to free me from having to make such a difficult choice. Between the time he died and the time I was able to talk to my parents was less than 15 minutes. He chose his moment to go. He was 10 years old.
As much as I had rationally tried to isolate myself from him, to convince myself he was my mother's cat and that I had no emotional attachment to Quincy, that little furball got around my defences and into my heart. I was devastated by the loss and again unable to explain how someone so small and furry could leave such a big, painful void in my life.
And yet....and yet....the memories of six wonderful years of play, affection, companionship and love will remain with me forever. The memories of him jumping on my lap and taking a nap, of him sun tanning in the backyard near a tree, or simply asking for another cat treat; these are what I will carry with me.
Missing you a year later, señor Quincy. Con cariño.
Sandeep
-- QUINCY
Born October 31st, 1993, Ottawa, ON;
Died Feb. 26th, 2004, Ottawa, ON.
Rest In Peace, dear friend
My mother, however, loved cats and knew very well that no one would ever "replace" Simon. She was kind enough to respect my wishes, though, and for a long time there was not furry friend in the house.
By 1997, my feelings, while not having changed, had dimmed in intensity and I felt the time was right for a compromise. As her birthday approached, my brother proposed the idea of adopting a cat for my mother's birthday. To his surprise, I accepted, reasoning in my mind that this would be her cat, not mine.
So my brother and I trooped down to the animal shelter (getting lost along the way, of course) and spent the next two hours looking at cats, cats, and more cats. The setting was perhaps not the best, as the way the shelter is designed, the dogs are in cages along the outer wall, forming a "U", and the cats are in an inner-room, filling in the "U". While brick walls and doors separate the two, a lot of cats are pretty freaked out from being in a cage, with dogs barking from all sides.
My mother had never really warmed up to the idea of having a kitten in the house, because she felt they were destructive and required training. She liked the idea of an older cat who was already housebroken, and adoption is easier for kittens anyway. So with that in mind, my brother and I focused on cats who were at least two years old. While many where cute and adorable, one cat stuck out for both us.
A smoky gray colour, Quincy was actually asleep when we got to his cage, which was a switch from just about every other cat that was borderline hysterical. We opened his cage door, he looked up, and casually sauntered over to get some attention. Within about five seconds, he flopped onto this side, encouraging us to rub his tummy, enjoying all the attention. After a few minutes of this, we closed the cage and continued looking at the other cats. He looked out the cage door, seemed mildly disappointed, ate a bit of food and then went back to sleep. Since the shelter estimated his age at about four years old, my brother and I agreed that a cat this relaxed and laid-back would be a good fit.
As we were at the front desk registering him and taking care of the paperwork, two old ladies walked in and were asking questions about a cat they had seen on television. One of the local television station gives 30 seconds during its lunchtime newscast to show pictures of cats and dogs waiting to be adopted at the shelter. Quincy, it turns out, had been featured on that day's news. The old ladies were disappointed that Quincy had already found a home, but happily went to look at the other cats inside.
Our belief that Quincy was a laid-back cat was proven pretty quickly when we put him in the car. Unlike Simon, who peed, howled, barfed and generally hated being in a car, Quincy sat quietly, looking interested but not impressed. Upon getting him home, he quickly went about exploring his new home and seemed perfectly at ease.
My brother and I decided to surprise my mother, so we set out to work on a plan. We finally decided that we would tie a little ribbon around his neck and tie a little note with a birthday greeting. We would leave him in the computer room in the basement with the door closed, and then make up some pretext to get my mother to go downstairs and open the door. My brother, who has a tendency of losing things anyway, informed my mother, when she got home from work, that he couldn't find something or other, and it was really important, and did she know where it was, etc....
Well, my mother was not in the mood to go picking up after my brother again, especially since it was something so obvious. I mean, where else but the computer room would you leave something like that. We somehow managed to keep a straight face as my mother stormed down to the basement and opened the door to the computer room and....stopped. "Meow" Surprise completed flawlessly.
For the first few months, my mother opted to keep Quincy as an indoor cat, even though there were signs he had been outside. When we brought him to the vet for his first immunizations, the vet noted the tips of his ears had been damaged most likely by frostbite, with a tiny triangle missing. So my mother started letting him out tied to a leash so he could explore the backyard and get comfortable with his new surroundings.
One day in February, my mother, for the second time, let him out without a leash and Quincy went about going further into the backyard and up on the fence. Something apparently spooked him there, and he tried to jump down off the wooden fence. However, his back claw got stuck and he was back at the vet with pulled ligaments in his hind leg. While he recovered quickly, he would always walk with a limp after that.
Despite being my mother's cat, he and I got along extremely well as I would give him all kinds of attention as well as play with him. He kept all of his claws and had no reservation about using them when he no longer felt like playing. When he was particularly playful, we would chase each other around the house, with him hiding under a couch and then swiping at my feet. He also seemed to enjoy the helicopter game, whereby I would pick him about a foot off the ground and spin him around 360 degrees.
One thing he didn't appear to like was heights. If I picked him up and slung him over my shoulders behind my head, he would whimper and look decidedly unhappy. When I'd put Simon on top of the fridge, he would sniff everything there and then explore the tops of the cabinets, annoying my mother with the dust he kicked up. Quincy, on the other hand, may make a quick sniff, but generally headed for the countertop and the floor as quickly as possible.
We also suspected that Quincy had spent time around dogs before coming to our house. For fun, I would pretend to pant like a dog which would make Quincy shoot me a deranged look, stare at me for a few seconds, before running up, swatting at my foot with his claws and then running away. If you threw something down the hallway, he would instinctively chase after it, suddenly stop, look confused, and then run in a completely different direction. We never quite figured out the thought process behind his actions, but it was quite amusing to watch.
Over the next couple of years, I began to travel a lot more, leaving for months at a time. My mother insisted that Quincy looked positively bored, though he continued to sleep for 22 hours a day and drive my mother crazy with his changing tastes in cat food (unlike Simon, Quincy never showed much interest in table scraps). When I would return, speaking to him in Spanish now, he would look vaguely miffed that I had been gone, but soon enough resume his habit of treating me, and any other human, as furniture to sit and sleep on.
And he would do so in the most bizarre positions too! I would swear that he couldn't possibly be comfortable draped on my legs or knees, or shoulders, but he would always settle in and try to catch a quick nap. He actually fell asleep on my mother once while she was sitting on the couch; his rear end was airborne on her shoulder, while his front paws braced himself into her stomach.
Like Simon, Quincy was prone to fights with the neighbourhood cats, though not nearly as often or as vicious. His hunting skills were a little more dubious, or perhaps he was just lazy, as his kills tended to be baby rabbits and birds. Squirrels, however, did not interest Quincy in the slightest.
In early 2004, Quincy slowed down quite a bit, though it was unclear what was wrong with him. Trips to the vet revealed nothing in their tests, though he seemed to respond to some medications. My parents were planning a trip to Egypt to visit my brother, and since I had moved out the previous year, I would have to stop by to check up on him. A friend of mine from Colombia, Jose, was staying at my parents place as well and, while not a fan of cats, got along well with Quincy.
My parents left aware that Quincy seemed more lethargic and quiet, but another trip to the vet showed nothing in their tests and with the medication seeming to work, my parents went on their trip. The first week, he slowed down again, so I brought him back to the vet where they injected him with antibiotics instead of the oral medications he had been taking. That weekend, I informed my parents that Quincy was doing much better, as when I had stopped by the house, he had run to the door to greet me. After the weekend, however, it seemed the effect of the medications wore off and he was having trouble again. He would be usually lying down when I saw him and Jose told me he didn't move much during the day either. He had stopped eating and his only effort was to drink some water and use his litter box as best as he could. On Tuesday night, I called up his vet to report on his condition. As they were closing at 8pm, they suggested I take him to the 24-hour animal hospital, and they would fax over Quincy's files.
At the animal hospital, the vet agreed that Quincy was in bad shape and recommended he spend the night so they could do some more tests. I agreed to do so and left suddenly aware that I had to start planning for the worst, which was even worse since my parents were in Egypt.
My Wednesday at work was extremely busy, as I was supposed to be in two different Senate Committee hearings at the same time. I had kept my cell phone on "discrete" so that the hospital could call me without disturbing the committee work. The call I dreaded came in around 3pm on that Wednesday: a different set of tests pointed to the possibility that Quincy had something called Feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). In order to confirm it, it would be necessary to conduct expensive tests that would take a couple of days, but given his condition, the vet said I should consider the idea of euthanasia. FIP was a variant of the corona virus and always fatal in cats. I started to panic because, even if I thought this was a good idea, Quincy was my mother's cat and she had to make the decision. The vet felt I should get in touch with my parents because she couldn't say for sure that Quincy would make it to their return in a week.
I somehow managed to finish my day at work and when I got home, I went straight to the hospital. They were very nice and let me take Quincy out of his cage and gave me a private room to be with him. The poor little guy was generally out of it and just let himself be cradled by me. Every now and then, he would struggle to get free, making a huge effort before giving up and letting me stroke his fur and whisper to him and just cry a lot in general.
I went home and sent an e-mail to my parents and brother telling them of what had happened and asking my brother (who was working in Egypt while my parents were on vacation) to try to track down my parents if he read his e-mail that day. I was wrenched with the idea of having to make a decision on Quincy without being able to talk to my mother. I was really hoping that Quincy would make it through, but at the same time, could I really let him continue waiting to suffer while waiting to get in touch with my mother?
We often assign human qualities to our furry friends, believing them to understand us when we talk to them, sensing our vulnerabilities, consoling us, comforting us, taking on our personality. While there may never be a way to prove it one way or the other, pet lovers take comfort in thinking our friends did things beyond instinct.
Thursday morning, the phone rang around 7am, which I knew couldn't be a good sign. It was the vet, and they were telling me that Quincy had taken a turn for the worse just now, and was having trouble breathing and generally suffering a lot. They were asking me for permission to put him down humanely. I stumbled through a lame explanation that I hadn't heard back from my mother, that I would check my e-mail to see if there was anything, asking if there was anything more they could do. The vet asked me to hold, and I could hear her talking with someone and then...
then....
he was gone. Quincy died while I was on the phone with the vet.
I felt dizzy, I was finishing breakfast, getting ready to go to work, the computer was booting up, my roommates were milling about (not daring to ask what was going on). I don't remember what happened for the rest of the conversation (other than the vet giving her condolences and seeming a bit in shock herself), but the next thing I knew I was pulling out my parents itinerary and trying to track them down myself.
As it happened, I found out which hotel they were in and the phone number for the hotel. The first sense of relief was having the desk clerk confirm they were there and transferring me to their room number. Curiously, the phone rang in their room just minutes after they had returned from the beach.
My dad answered the phone and was quite surprised to hear my voice on the other end. It was a big struggle to keep myself composed and actually be coherent on the phone, but I managed to tell him what happened and asked to speak to mom. My mother asked if I was ok and I pretty much lost it at that point, just sobbing into the phone that Quincy was dead. I felt horrible since the last message they had received from me was that he was doing better. We worked out the arrangements for Quincy's cremation since that couldn't wait until they got back.
I called in sick for work that day, and went back to the vet. They asked me if I wanted to see him one last time and I said yes. They put me in a private room again and brought him in, all wrapped up in blankets. He looked so peaceful, like was simply napping. I wanted to pick him up and have him start purring again, but I could only bring myself to stroking his head and his back. He was still warm. But he didn't purr.
The logical part of my brain finds it absurd, but I still identify strongly with the belief that Quincy chose to free himself from his pain and suffering, but also to free me from having to make such a difficult choice. Between the time he died and the time I was able to talk to my parents was less than 15 minutes. He chose his moment to go. He was 10 years old.
As much as I had rationally tried to isolate myself from him, to convince myself he was my mother's cat and that I had no emotional attachment to Quincy, that little furball got around my defences and into my heart. I was devastated by the loss and again unable to explain how someone so small and furry could leave such a big, painful void in my life.
And yet....and yet....the memories of six wonderful years of play, affection, companionship and love will remain with me forever. The memories of him jumping on my lap and taking a nap, of him sun tanning in the backyard near a tree, or simply asking for another cat treat; these are what I will carry with me.
Missing you a year later, señor Quincy. Con cariño.
Sandeep
-- QUINCY
Born October 31st, 1993, Ottawa, ON;
Died Feb. 26th, 2004, Ottawa, ON.
Rest In Peace, dear friend
