Adios, Señor


The fact should have been disclosed before my wedding day. But somehow I got tangled in the snare and married a cat lover.

Since those wedding bells, I lived through not one, but two editions of feline – the first a Chloe, the second a Calypso (both of them small witches with whiskers) – and had reached the conclusion that cats and men are completely incompatible. The truth is, I’ve known very few cat-dudes in my short time on this rock and come across even fewer felines that could be considered dude-cats.

Of course, that all changed nearly six years ago.

I pedaled home from work on that fateful evening, just like every other Monday at dusk, and found a most felid surprise awaiting me. There, sitting on my porch (and eating from a brand new pet bowl filled with white albacore) was a creature that resembled a giant squirrel more than a cat. Its brown and black fur was matted to its racy frame in thick stripes, and the smell of wild animal filled the air.

“Isn’t he beautiful,” my wife Rachael called from inside. The animal answered by gagging up a little chicken of the sea before diving back into the dish. “The poor thing was starving,” my better half added, holding our weeks-old newborn in one arm and a brand new cat brush in the other. Sensing that an objection might be coming, she cut me off early. The first vet visit had already been scheduled, she explained, and added that special wifely glance that indicates withholding could be in my future (and as the gents in the audience know, I’m not talking about tax refunds).

And so it was that Señor came into our lives. The cat earned his name right away after showing that he was a first of the kind – a true Mister. Here at last was one of those fabled dude-cats – a legendary tom – and for some reason, he had sought us out and decided we were worthy of adoption.

Back then Señor was not a cat who liked to be touched. With his half-missing left ear, scratched eye and incredible underbite (his lower fangs hung out sabertooth-style), the dude had definitely seen some serious action. Nonetheless, that West Animas Valley warrior didn’t mind the white fish and happily took up residence under our front porch. He also sealed a feline agreement with his new tribe and would hunt everything and anything belonging to the Rodentia order. In exchange, we’d give him a little supplemental feed. No grooming was necessary.

In the coming weeks, Señor showed such an aptitude for natural selection we considered renaming him Hanta. Dozens of deer mice, a couple of pack rats and a particularly vicious gopher all fell pray to the new resident within a span of days. Señor flexed his real might during a late summer visit from a friend and her Jack Russell, named Bitsy. Off the leash, the inquisitive little dog managed to sniff her way into Señor’s subterranean lair. We had no idea that she’d entered that chamber of horrors until the sound of death throes issued from beneath the porch. The dog emerged yelping and peppered with cat claws, a large flap of skin now loosed from her shoulders. Like a lion, Señor emerged from his cave and proudly stretched to his full length for all to see.

Yep, back then I was the proudest of cat-dudes. Our home and young daughter were safely protected, and a dozen-pound feline was doing the honors. Cat and man had apparently reconciled their centuries-old divide, and all seemed right with the world.

Of course, all good things must come to an end, and for what that affair boasted in strength, it lacked in length. Shortly after Skyler’s first birthday, Señor made his first trip into the inner sanctum – the toddler bed. Not long after, my once famous man-cat developed a love for the grooming brush, and his extended hunts soon became infrequent missions for easy prey – the smallest and most vulnerable house mice. On yet another Monday evening, I pedaled home to find my once mighty warrior vanquished. Señor – underbite, torn ear, scrappy hide and all – was laying swaddled inside a lacy blanket. Skyler had slipped that happy cat into a pink dress with frill and topped his head with an American Girl bonnet. Oh how the mighty had fallen.

“He’s just so old. Señor really needs to live inside now,” Rachael offered throwing the “glance” for special emphasis. That chain continued for several more years with my demented veteran wearing even more ladies clothing and eventually changing his name (with a little help from the womenfolk) to a fairly effeminate Senny Boy. As the final stroke, our now incontinent cat settled on my $300 Italian cycling shoes as his favorite place to void his bladder (“This might sound funny, but does anyone else smell cat piss,” my riding pals would say on occasion.)

Cat pee and pink bonnets aside, this cat-dude managed to soften up and went along for the ride, doing whatever I could as the dude-cat slipped a little closer to the final curtain. Throughout, Señor remained a fighter, and when our old man of the mountain started shriveling away this spring, he clung to life and craved time with the family in the den.

Renal failure was the vet’s conclusion last week when Rachael took the old boy for his last drive. Putting him down was the only option and the humane thing to do. Señor had come to the end of the line. But when the first injection went in, that old tom dug deep, found some of his old spirit and held on for another round. The fighter wasn’t going to go easy. After the second dose, Señor gave up one final gasp and gave a last look that said, “Adios. I’ll see you on the other side.”

– Will Sands