I loved my cat. Like no other animal I've ever had. And it just hurts right now to know that he is gone. And, I keep thinking that, being a strictly indoor cat, that maybe he felt all alone in a cage at the vet's that he just had no hope left in his little body. That maybe he thought we had abandoned him in his final hour. He was there less than an hour before my wife got the call that he had passed.
I loved him. Not because he was a pet. Or a companion. But, because I know he loved me, too. My wife and I found him on the side of the road as a kitten in Wellsburg, West Virginia one day coming home from Pittsburgh. He was next to a McDonald's and came to us the moment my wife called out, "Kitty." I didn't even see him, he was so small. But this little ball of yellowish orange and white fur bounded up the small hill toward her. Going through the drive thru at McDonald's we got him a Filet-o-Fish sandwich that we crushed up the fish for him and he was so hungry the little guy ate half of it. And then he just laid on me against my chest. His legs spread out. His little head nestled against my neck. He was purring. I had saved him. And for the rest of his life he never once failed to show me how great he felt I was to him.
Already having four cats, we didn't think we could house another. Her mother didn't want another. Our friends didn't want anymore. I told my wife that if we take him home, he's ours. And so we started thinking up names. Our friend suggested "McFish". But, driving up Adams in Steubenville, I thought, "Why not Quint? He is our fifth." And from that day forward, he was Quint. It just fit him. Sure, we've given him other nicknames along the way, but Quint was his namesake and he became a part of our household.
He fit in great with the other four. And eventually with the two newer cats we adopted along the way. But there was something special about him to me. The first three were my wife's cats. Our fourth was 'ours', but he hated me. He was always jealous of anytime I was, or am, close to my wife. But, Quint loved me. He followed me like a little fluffy shadow about the house. He would sit on my lap on the couch watching TV. He would lay on the bed next to me during the night. He would sit on my desk at the computer. He would be looking out the window or waiting at the door when I got home.
And he always made you pick him up. He'd come up to the couch and stand against the edge to look if there were room. Gesturing for him to come up, he'd start rocking back and forth like he wanted to jump, but wouldn't. Then he'd stick out both paws up into the air and let his chest rest against the edge of the couch and every time I'd lift him by his torso up onto my stomach and chest where he always stayed stretched out, his head on my shoulder. He'd lay like that with me for hours while watching TV. Purring softly into my ear as I petted him down his head and spine.
When he jumped, he always make these 'squeak' sounds as my wife called them. And when he went to lay his head down, or settle down after curling up on the couch, the bed, the floor, the stereo, the cable box, the toilet seat, etc he always let out a long sigh as if his life was just so difficult being so pampered. We'd always tell him, "Oh, you have such a tough life, don't you?" and he'd roll to his side to be petted and start purring.
He had this thick coat of long white and light orange fur that we dubbed him "Yellow Fur" as it blended well.
I knew this day would come. But, I never would've thought it'd come so soon. I thought I'd have maybe a decade more with him. But, just like that, he's gone. All I have are memories and photos. I've never had a cat like him. And I don't know how I'd ever have another. Of the six I have left, none are like him. He was my boy. The closest thing I'll have to a son, I've said. For reasons I'm not going to get into. And it hurts so much right now knowing I'll never see him again. I'll never hear him purr again. And I'll never have the feeling of that little ball of fur that loved me so unconditionally lying on my chest and shoulder as he falls asleep.
Quint. I'll miss you.
2006 One of the earliest pics I can find of him.
2007 Sprawled out on the desk.
2010 In bed after I already woke up.
2011 Last photo I ever took of him from May. I still can't believe I didn't take anything more recently than this, or of better quality. But, this is how I'll always remember him. Sitting with me.
Anyways. To those that read this. Thank you. To those that will either surely insult me or at the least roll their eyes at a grown man crying over their deceased cat, you'll never know what it's like. The only way to love something is for it to hurt when you lose it.
