His name was Pretty Boy. He was tiny – half the size of the other cats in the house. He was old: we figure he was about 18, which is a good age for his breed. He was a stray (a hand-me-down of a hand-me-down, we were his third set of people) who had never learned to groom himself, so he was a bit mangy. And he was dainty: he would often sit with one paw over the other, something I don’t remember seeing in other cats. And he was a weirdo: when he drank out of his water bowl, he would often put his paws into it for reasons we could never quite grasp.
Because of his size, Pretty Boy didn’t trust anybody who was bigger than he was, which was pretty much everybody. With good reason: one of the cats in the house used to beat him up. Sometimes we would know about it because small tufts of fur would be strewn about his couch. During the last months of his life, Pretty Boy would hide out under the furniture in the bar room. When we closed that option to him, he retreated to the far side of his couch (we barricaded the near side to protect him). He was, in short, the underdog of the house cats. My heart always goes out to the underdog. He was my favourite.
As far as one can tell with cats, I was his favourite human. One aspect of my neurodivergence is that I enjoy repetitive tasks. This makes me popular with pets because I can pet them and rub their bellies for hours. When Pretty Boy realized this, he got over his skittishness around me and would often seek me out for attention. And I would happily give it to him. We spent a lot of time together in what would prove to be the final months of his life. It didn’t hurt that I would indulge him in another one of his weirdnesses: when he was petted, he sometimes enjoyed having his eyes covered with one of my hands. Apparently, this was also a feature of many of his breed.
When the end came, Pretty Boy hobbled across the dining room table to be with me. Our plan was to take him to the vet, where I had intended to be with him to the end. We were waiting for a taxi to take us to the vet when he died; I was there for him. It was terrible, but the worst of it was over in less than a minute, for which I am grateful.
Rest in peace, Pretty Boy. You will be missed.
