He Just Needed A Few More Months

I took my new wife and two new young daughters to the Humane Society for a kitten. They played with a cute black fuzzball in the meeting room, but he cried for his brother. Inevitably, we took home two tiny, fuzzy kittens, midnight black with white medallions on their chests. Cicero grew up loud and vocal; Rascal, the leader, had tiny mew. Cicero’s fur was a little silkier, Rascal’s was drier, and Cicero’s medallion was much more distinct.

Soon we added two dogs to the family. Rascal ruled the house; Cicero and the dogs followed his rules. When he passed at five years, one of the dogs took over as the leader. Cicero never wanted to be in charge. He left the dogs alone, and they left him alone. Eventually, we inherited a new cat, a grey tortie named Smoki.

The new cat was never friendly to people or the dogs, and we were all a little afraid of her. If she stood in a doorway, our fifty-pound lab would stay out of the room. After full lives, our dogs traveled over the rainbow bridge, and it was just the two of them, Cicero and Smoki. Cicero was a larger male and they generally stayed out of each other way, so the house was peaceful.

He was the coolest, most loving cat in the world. We never picked Smoki up because she would growl, scratch, and bite. Cicero could be carried around by children and adults. He would put the girls to bed at night, join us until we fell asleep, then guard the house at night. In the morning he would let us know in a loud and certain voice that it was time to get up. We went years without oversleeping.

At fifteen years, Cicero started to languish. The vet said kidney failure, like his brother. The doctor rehydrated him and his kidneys started minimal function again, so we took him home with a small bag of special kidney food, but we didn’t have much hope. As he lay around the house, he wasn’t declining, but he wasn’t getting better, and we thought the time was short. With his shaved wrists and shaved chest from the vet, he looked like the saddest poodle ever. When it came time to buy more food, my wife bought the small size bag because she didn’t think he’d last through a large.

A few days later, my daughter Lauren, just home from college for the summer, texted me. She had seen two kittens for adoption outside the grocery store. She’d take care of them over the summer, she begged, we would watch them for a year, then they would move in with her for her junior year in college when she would have an apartment.

She couldn’t let the (claimed) littermates be broken up! Where had I heard that before? Finally, she pulled out the big guns:

“It’s OK with mom if it’s OK with you!”

Her mother, of course, never thought I would go for it, but she should have known I can’t say no to my daughters.

Soon we had two small kittens, both sick when they came home. Jack was all black like Cicero, and despite my daughter’s nursing, he lost an eye, condemning him to a lifetime of pirate jokes. Jill looked like a tiny orange tiger. Smoki had zero maternal instincts and hated them both. After they recovered and were allowed to roam the house, she terrorized them.

Cicero, though, would have none of it. When he heard the yowling, he would rouse himself from his perch on the back of the couch. Slowly rising, he would flex his legs and stretch his body like he was warming up for a fight. Almost casually, he would jump to the cushions, then to the floor, and saunter over to where Smoki would have one of the kittens cornered. Still utterly casual, he would growl and smack Smoki with a paw, breaking up the fight. Equally lackadaisical, he’d wander back to the couch, jump up to his perch, and go back to sleep.

Soon we noticed that he had perked up. He had a mission in life. While Lauren worked in college, he raised her babies. Over the next months, as he watched out for them, we watched Cicero and kept our fingers crossed. Every couple of weeks we bought a small size bag of his special kidney diet food. We couldn’t bear the thought of buying a large bag of food and jinxing him with our expectations. If he passed after we bought a large bag of food expecting him to live, it would be our fault.

Jack and Jill thrived; Jack grew to the same size as Cicero, around fifteen pounds, and they were especially close. Cicero taught Jack to sprawl on the back of the couch, and the two would lay there for hours. When we go to my daughter’s house today and see Jack atop the backrest of their couch, the sight immediately takes us back in time.

Towards the end of March, we could tell Cicero was starting his last decline. At nearly sixteen years, he was tired. When he looked at us, he told us that his work was done. The kittens he raised could take care of themselves, and it was his time. He stopped eating and drinking and had to make his last trip to the vet. We made sure that his ashes went to the same cemetery as his brother so that they could be near each other again.

Cicero was never aggressive, never wanted to be in charge, and never wanted to be the alpha. But when there were helpless kittens in the house, a family that needed protection, he fought death itself to be their parent and mentor. I hope I can live my life that well.

Brian E. Wish works as a quality engineer in the aerospace industry. He has spent 29 years active and reserve in the US Air Force, where he holds the rank of Colonel. He has a bachelor’s from the US Air Force Academy, a master’s from Bowie State, and a Ph.D. in Public and Urban Administration from UT Arlington. The opinions expressed here are his own. Learn more at brianewish.com.