Achilles

Adopted December 1975 in Tulsa – died 18 May 1989 in Tulsa

I first saw him in a cage at the veterinary clinic. He suffered a compound fracture of the hind left leg, with the femur sticking through his black fur. It was hard to look at, and yet, he was purring while rubbing his lips against the gate. “What’s his story,” I asked Dr. Lanning.

A young couple, the owners, brought him to the clinic because he had been run over. The estimate for the needed surgery was too high for them; paying in installments wasn’t acceptable either. Even if the vet had done it for free, the cat’s fate was sealed when he told them that he would have to be an indoor cat from then on. The couple just walked out the door leaving the injured pet behind. One of my fantasies is to spend five minutes alone in a room with someone capable of such callousness, because I’d do my best to surpass it.

I was at Walnut Creek Veterinary Hospital on a routine check up with one of my pets and sometimes I was invited to the back; this time, because Lanning had something in mind. We stood by the cage marveling at the desire for affection that would override a bone sticking out when, quite abruptly as was his custom, Lanning offered: “If you keep him yourself, I’ll do the surgery and neuter him for free.”

Did I hear the cat purr “Yey-ssss!” Deal! The obvious name for him was “Achilles,” for while his leg was weak, he was truly invincible.

Achilles “the Baby” as we often called him, never realized he had been neutered. His territoriality undiminished, it took tolerance, boundaries, and much cleaning to live with a spraying cat. He even marked my face as I lowered a magazine I was reading in bed to see what was hitting the paper on the other side.

Dragging his lame leg didn’t bother or slow him down. On a particularly ferocious March brizzard he escaped to chase a female in heat. My elderly mother and I went in pursuit of the black fury leaping well ahead of us on deep snow until he cornered his Juliet. Wearing the warmest coats we owned, neither one of us could stay outside more than five minutes at a time standing guard over the highly vocal courtship. We took turns. Verbal reminders that he was “neu-ter-ed!” fell on deaf ears, nor did I succeed at grabbing him with a blanket to take him home. Finally, when he consummated the act with the vigor and gusto of an intact male, I was able to pick him up and take him home. We were all iced over and he was satisfied.

Achilles’ platonic love, however, was Paquita (blogged 8 OCT 2011). She was small and shy, and he took visible pride in offering his protection. One was never far from the other. 

My mother's special concession to Achilles on sunny days was to take him out to the backyard ... at the end of a length of yarn -- like that would stop him. There was something comical and tender seeing an elderly woman solicitously walking behind a lame cat, stopping here and there to cut (with scissors) the greenest clumps of grass and feed them to the eager cat ... at the end of the yarn. Not a photo of that existential scene was ever taken.

Achilles and Mariquita Pérez.

I don’t remember the symptoms that made me take Achilles to the vet. I left him there overnight for observation and he died, alone in a cage in the dark. A “saddle-back stroke” Dr. McCoy told me regretfully. He handed me the body, already in a plastic shroud which, when removed revealed a contorted body and a rictus of pain and terror like this fearless feline had never known before.

(Gentle reader: There is no overnight “observation” except in emergency clinics. Everything that can be done in a cage in an empty clinic can be done better at home. Shuttle patients back and forth, but don’t leave them alone, scared, and unattended. Achilles’ face, etched forever in my mind, told me to pass the word.)

Buried in a cardboard box full of white roses, next to a Foster’s Holly cut a long time ago.

Black cats rule!