You have no doubt deduced that he is an old cat. He is also large. In his prime, he weighed 16 pounds and could jump five feet from a standing start. Either that, or he flew to the top of the television cabinet when nobody was looking.
It seems everybody around here has two or five or eight cats. But back in Kansas City, where Wisk started out, people mostly have dogs. We had a dog, too. For the first 13 years of Wisk’s life, and even though the cat was smarter, friendlier and a whole lot less trouble, the dog pretty much ran things, because, after trying to make friends and failing, Wisk just didn’t give a damn.
We returned from vacation those 15 years ago to find a small, very hungry kitten locked into the neighbor’s porch with empty food and water dishes and a very full litterbox. I burgled the porch, and we took care of this furball until the neighbors returned in a couple of days. Dog food, of course.
We returned him to them, with some dirty looks, but he had adopted us and constantly found his way back to our kitchen.
Then one day, the neighbor’s teen-aged daughter appeared at our door, literally holding Wisk by the scruff of his neck and said that if we didn’t want him they were going to take him to the pound. Dad was warming the car up now.
Of course, this was exactly what the boys and I had been angling for, but my wife is seriously allergic to cats. No matter. Humanity prevailed, and Wisk moved in full time.
He has, of course, taken over our lives, as only a spoiled rotten pet can do, especially after the kids move out. Time to get up: meow. Feed me: meow. I’m going to take a nap: don’t bother me. But now, he is leaving us. Day by day and step by step, he is going away.
His kidneys are failing; he has diabetes. Every morning I pump 50 cc of something called Lactated Ringer’s into him, and every night he gets insulin. Human insulin, of course.
He does not seem to be in any pain; he just toddles around with a wobble here and there and sleeps most of the time. Of course, he has always slept most of the time – except at night, when we are trying to. Beware of nocturnal pets.
When we moved here recently, we were afraid he wouldn’t survive a two-day car trip to North Carolina. No problem. He slept all the way. In fact, when we returned from a chicken dinner at the Colonel’s widow’s place in Shelbyville, Ky., he was sitting on top of — yes — the television cabinet in the motel.
He still has his moments. He nailed a chipmunk shortly before we left Kansas City. I can only assume the chipmunk was as feeble as he is, but you never know. No chipmunks around here.
He can still get on the furniture, but he sits and thinks about it before he jumps.
He still sleeps on our bed (Please, no comments), but he fell off the other night and woke up my wife (yes, still allergic). He never used to fall off of anything. The next morning we found two claws on the floor. Claws? Who knows?
We have always been suckers for pets. We have both had a series of dogs since childhood, and now, this accidental cat, who will always remain my favorite.
But pets are a strange concept, if you think about it. They lie around, make messes and cost money. We transfer affection to them which might be better spent on our spouses or our children. And then, worst of all, they die.
We have vowed that Wisk will be our last pet. It is a vow in danger every time I walk past that window in Southern Pines with the kittens in it, but I hope we can keep it.
It’s not that we wouldn’t love a new critter and enjoy it and pamper it. That’s the problem. We would. Then, someday, we’d have to bury it.
The time is approaching when we could expect a pet to outlive us. Maybe then. Meanwhile, Wisk is hanging on. We’ll toddle along together as long as we can.
Frederick R. Wolferman, a recently semi-retired arrival from Kansas City, lives in Forest Creek.
