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Herman
Chick Flicks is a dark anthology type of ezine which found my cat story much to their liking. Once you get to the end of it, you’ll understand why.
Herman By Bob Farley Sheila didn't care much for cats. So when Aunt Janet--her only living relative--had a stroke and asked if she could take care of Herman, her ten-year-old Maine coon cat, Sheila wasn't thrilled, but she couldn't say no. She soon learned that Herman basically took care of himself. He never rubbed against her legs wanting petted, never sharpened his claws on the furniture, never meowed incessantly for no reason. Most of the time, he lay stretched out against a wall or sometimes with his head hanging comically off a counter or table. If not for his long hair floating throughout the house, Sheila could easily have forgotten he existed. Herman became a calming influence in her life, a life that could be described as tumultuous, mostly due to her bad luck with men. The week before she got Herman, she'd broken up with her fifth boyfriend in a year. Five years later, thanks perhaps to Herman, maybe not, she had gone through only three men. Herman had centered her, Sheila believed. One morning, she reached down to pet him and was shocked to feel the sharp points of his backbone protruding against the skin. “Herman, what's the matter, boy?” Sheila picked him up, expecting to feel the pull of his twenty pounds, but instead, he was as light as a sack of air. She hadn't noticed his weight loss through all his fur. Examining his face, she saw his eyes looked yellowed and cloudy. He let out a strident mewl, low and agonizingly hollow. Alarmed, Sheila called the vet and made an appointment for that afternoon. At the vets, the news wasn't good. “I'm afraid it looks like his organs are shutting down. We can run some tests to see if it's an infection,” the vet said sadly. “Is he in pain, Doctor?” “Yes, he's unable to pass urine as he should, so he's quit drinking. That's why he's so dehydrated.” Herman meowed loudly and insistently. Sheila looked at him sadly. “How much will testing cost?” She was barely able to pay her bills the way it was. "It depends on how much we have to do. Several hundred dollars, probably, but there's no other way to make sure what's going on,” the doctor said. "How old is he?” Sheila counted in her head. "Fifteen or sixteen.” "I'm afraid we may be fighting a losing battle, then, whatever we do,” the doctor said. "He's probably already past his normal lifespan.” "You think we should put him to sleep?” Sheila wanted him to say no, but his expression and hesitation told her he was going to say yes. "Sometimes euthanasia is the best way to go, but at this point I'll leave it to your discretion.” He paused as Sheila clasped her hands, twining and untwining her fingers. "Our pets live much longer lives with us than they would in the wild on their own. That sometimes makes it hard for us.” "We have to play God, don’t we?” The doctor nodded. Herman let out another cry and a hiss. "What's that about?" Sheila asked. "He's in pain and he doesn't know what to do." Sheila couldn't bear hearing Herman cry, but ending his life seemed such a drastic thing to do. Still...the cat was her responsibility, and she wouldn't make him survive past his time. "We can do the tests," the doctor began. "No," Sheila said, tears welling in her eyes. The doctor walked out of the office, saying he'd return in a moment with a nurse. Herman looked at her, and for the first time that she could remember, he rose to his feet, arched his frail back, and rubbed himself across her arm. He meowed. Not the plaintive sound of the past few minutes, but as normal a sound as he had ever made. He moved back and forth like nothing was wrong with him. My God, Sheila thought, is he trying to plead for his life? He licked her hand and nipped at her finger. But then his back legs fell out from under him and he hissed at himself again. The door to the examining room opened and the doctor came in with a tray and a needle. "This won't hurt, will it?" Sheila asked. "No. He'll just go to sleep," the doctor promised. "You don't have to be here during the procedure. I can have the nurse hold him, or you can, whichever you want." "I'll do it," Sheila said, catching her breath in between sobs. "Are you ready?" "Okay," Sheila said, and the doctor plunged the needle into her cat's leg muscle. Herman twitched and looked up at Sheila, holding him tight. She wanted to stop it from happening. She felt like a horrible, horrible witch, too lazy to take care of this defenseless creature. Why hadn't she agreed to the tests? She could have doctored him back to health. The doctor pulled out the needle and walked out of the room. "Take your time," he said. Sheila watched her cat's head turn up to her, his eyes on hers. She remembered the times they had shared and hoped that somehow he was doing the same. Slowly, without a sound, the big cat closed his eyes and went limp in her arms. Carefully she laid the once proud creature onto the table and let her tears and cries escape, without shame and without care for who might hear her. For at least ten minutes she could not stop crying, aghast at the finality of the scene before her and what she had done. After a time, she pulled herself together. "Good-bye, Herman," she said. The words brought another five minutes of tears to her eyes. That night, Sheila sat watching rain run in rivulets down her living room window. Sipping a glass of wine, she listened to the radio and wept softly. She missed Herman's soothing presence, lying against the wall, eyes closed and quiet. And she didn't even like cats. THE END Feel moved to comment? All are welcome. Here's a good place to do it. Thanks. 2005
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