Several years have now passed since I made a promise to my wife Robin. She knew she had only a few days to live and she was, as was her nature, worried about me. She asked if I would make three promises to her. I wanted to give her anything but I had to know what those three promises were before I gave her my word.
She described the three requests and I listened to her whisper of a voice. The three requests were not by any means outrageous but I had to think. I didn't want to lie to her. After a moment, I told her that I couldn't promise to fulfill two of her requests but I would always keep them in mind. I did however promise to fulfill one request. Robin asked that I take good care of the cat, "Scratchy Cat."
I find that cats, much like people, die. This cat which I inherited from my departed wife Robin, this cat that I shared my life with for many years, left me all alone much the way Robin did. I dare say that I will never again place myself in such a precarious and unenviable position, a position wherein I watched a companion, a dear friend, die. I fear that I have seen enough of death's unforgiving face.
The "Scratchy Cat" was a friend who lived with me for more than 14 years. I don't know how old she was but I guess that really doesn't matter. She seemed to sense my moods and, when life was getting the better of me, she rested on my lap and rubbed my arm with her face.
She was a talkative feline, more so than most, I believe, and was not shy about sharing her needs. She meowed when she was hungry or wanted to go onto the balcony located just outside my bedroom. While there she often curled up on a chair cushion and reveled in the warm light of the sun. Oh, how she loved the sunlight.
When she wanted attention, she was not bashful about asking for it. She frequently put her foot on my hand and purred. I came to understand that the gesture and accompanying talk was a request to be rubbed. I rarely ignored her wish.
The furry black and white wet-nosed "Scratchy Cat" died. The date doesn't matter nor do the circumstances or reasons. She's gone and, once again, I find that there are things in this life which I just cannot prevent or change.
It seems to me that promises, commitments, are not taken seriously these days. Promises are made with little or no thought about keeping them. I'm glad that I'm not like that. I made a commitment to Robin. I promised to take good care of our cat and that's exactly what I did.
I find that I now have no further commitments and no promises to keep. I'm beholding to nobody and whatsoever decisions I make from this moment on won't be based on any concerns regarding obligations to others. I am no longer in any way encumbered.
That was the last promise to be kept, the final commitment to be honored. I now must ask the question, "Is that a good thing." Maybe it was those unfulfilled obligations that compelled me to accept the sun on my face each morning as I received the beginning of yet another day -- those days which could have easily been rejected.
The house seems very empty without her and I will miss her very much. She was a good cat and, speaking as her longtime roommate, I have no complaints. I wonder if life can have much meaning if there is nobody to care about, nothing to come home to. The thought of that existence, that life without purpose, without a light to guide me, frightens me.
Would you like to know why it was so very important that I kept my promise to Robin? Well, I'll tell you. It's because I know with all my heart that, if the tables were turned, if I had been the one dying and she the one who made a promise, she would have kept her word. Robin would have fulfilled her commitment. That knowledge has never left my mind and my heart.
I made a wish a few years ago. I asked that I be allowed to outlive Scratchy. I knew that if I was around, she could stay in her safe and familiar home and be well cared for. I'm pleased that things worked out that way.
When I consider these past many years, I realize that I needed the cat more than she needed me. I think Robin knew that when she asked me to make and keep a promise. What's next for me? We'll see.
I wrote the previous words some time ago, realizing that should I still be around, those details would not change but I didn't know the specifics about Scratchy's passing. Well, now I do.
Scratchy, as am I, was old. In the last few months, she found that she couldn't raise herself onto the bed or find my lap as I sat in a chair late at night. The curse of blindness befell her and I often found her standing in a corner crying as she didn't know where to go. She bumped into walls and squeaked with surprise when I touched her because she couldn't see me.
She cried a lot. I think she was confused and afraid and being afraid is such a terrible thing -- certainly no way to live. She got very close to me when I placed her on the bed beside me but she only looked at me when I spoke. She could hear but not see me. She could no longer find her bowl of food, so I carried her to it but she wouldn't eat.
I decided to take Scratchy to the doctor, thinking there may be some remedy that might cure her but I also knew that the advice given might be to end her life.
I sat quietly in the Veterinarian's office waiting and fearing her words. It took some time, but she said that her problems were incurable; she was very old, had lost her eyesight and was obviously suffering. She said the most humane thing to do would be to end her life. I knew it was the right thing to do and agreed.
The deadly injection was given then, and for some time, I stood beside the table she rested on. She didn't move as I rubbed her neck and head and especially her soft chin. She didn't make a sound as she gently slipped away.
I told her I loved her and reminded her of what a great life she had. I recalled to her all the times she had outsmarted me and how she in reality had been my boss and caregiver. She was so thin and frail, so I was careful to be gentle.
Some time passed -- it wasn't very long -- when someone said "she's gone now." I realized that I forgot to tell her how much I would miss her but I guess she knew that. I left the office carrying just her collar, alone and knowing it was the last time I would ever hear her soft purr while she rested on my lap.
As I drove away, I had something to say to Robin: "My cat's coming to be with you. She likes to have her chin rubbed while she lies on your lap and please let her lay next to you at night. While she drifts off to sleep beside you, she likes to have her belly rubbed. Robin, I want you to make a promise to me."
Stan Fine is a retired police officer and Verizon Security Department investigator who, after retiring in 2006, moved from Tampa, Fla., to Noel. Stan's connection to Noel can be traced back to his grandparents who lived most of their lives there. Stan began writing after the passing of his wife Robin in 2013. Opinions expressed are those of the author.