My First Cat

I am 27, living alone in a two-bit apartment in Michigan. My mom calls to remind me that I'm the only one in the family who isn't allergic to pets. I go to a local shelter and meet a six-month old kitten named Phinster who is sharing a cage with two others. I pick him up and he licks my nose. He is the one.

I go through a special interview with the shelter boss because people are callous with black cats. I am told Phinster is a "very sick kitty." I am not swayed. I ride back to my apartment with a black cat in a box crying for comfort. The first order of business is to give this little one a new name -- Phinster is just plain stupid. I don't want to confuse him, so I anoint him Finnegan.

We get home and I place him in his little litterbox next to the toilet. I put a bowl full of food on the floor. Finny walks out slowly to the food, looks at me, looks at the food, looks at me, and then walks up to my head (I'm down on all fours) and rubs my face repeatedly to say thank you. He chows down, probably for the first time in his life.

I get his esophageal hernia fixed, give him eye and ear drops for six weeks, and he returns to full health. After this treatment, Finny is no longer a lap cat but still very active. It's springtime and I decide that I am going to walk this cat. The first harness fitting and trip downstairs and outside is vocal and protracted. But by the third day I come home from work, my little friend has the harness in his mouth, and he is ready to explore. I do believe he was a happy cat.

Finny spent the next six years traveling to North Carolina (I snuck him into a Red Roof Inn on the way), making friends with dogs and a Siamese cat, and plundering donuts and cupcakes with his sweet tooth. I would sing him songs from the shower, and he continued to rub heads with me when we crossed paths.

One day in his seventh year, he stood in the bathroom while I showered and wouldn't stop talking. I checked his food and water, and he wasn't eating or drinking. I took him to Dr. Schoolmeester, our vet, and I was told that I had a "very sick cat". He was in renal failure. They gave him fluids. I took him home and spent the next few months giving him water injections through his back. He still loved me, but he was not happy.

Eventually I had to stop the treatments. He was too small. I could tell from his face that he was done. I had probably waited too long, but I did not want to let him go. Finally, I took him to an emergency vet in Charlotte on a Saturday. On the drive, he looked at me with weariness, and wonder. After they put him to sleep, my girlfriend said she had never seen me cry like that. He was my karaoke audience. He was my best friend when I was on my own. He was my first cat.