A bad spoon

Her name is Hikari, and if you met her, you would remember it. She’s a lady, but the vet happily reminds me that she’s built like a man. One of the techs once joked that I must have a Maine coon when she took the carrier she’s so big and heavy. But those are more recent memories, and if we want to talk about the bad spoon, I should probably start at the beginning, like any good storyteller. The first thing you need to realize is that I’m not a cat person. I prefer dogs, in all honesty. However, I can barely take care of myself, much less others. This fact, combined with the small yard space I purposefully have due to the lower maintenance requirements, led me to conclude that it would be cruel to have a dog. Or any pet, frankly. Sometimes fate plays tricks.

Hikari had a hard life before she came into mine. The story prior goes something like this: she was found in a bramble bush as a baby, abandoned. I could relate. She wasn’t my cat; she was the cat of the person I was dating at the time. It was a package deal: get the girl, get the two cats. Sometimes, love makes us do things we don’t think we can do. But this is the story of a very particular cat and my relationship with her. This is not a story about my love life, which I am extremely private about anyway. Nor is it the story of the second cat. A cat whom I also loved very much until she died in my arms. A different story for a different day, perhaps.

If I were to describe Hikari in one word, it would be bitchy. I mean this in the most loving way possible, but Hikari is one bitchy cat. If you heard her meow, you would understand. She is by far the most expressive cat I have ever met with her different meows. This can take many forms, but the primary form is when I am making something to eat and she wants it.

She is a very smart, very food-driven cat. I am convinced that if I worked with her enough, I could get her to do calculus for treats. So over the years, we’ve developed a routine. I will have some unseasoned shredded chicken that I will use to make my lunch. She will come over and claw my leg while meowing loud enough that it echoes across the house. Then she will headbutt my leg until I reward her unwavering, and undoubtedly in her mind brave, determination. I play my part well, telling her no the entire time until I acquiesce to her very vocal demands. Since I am very careful about what “people food” she gets, I eat a lot of chicken, which is boiled and then shredded. It keeps life simple for the both of us. She never gets tired of it, so neither do I.

This routine is not limited to lunch; all meals require her attention. This is because — according to her — she is the person who handles the quality control. Sometimes she will jump into one of the two chairs across the counter to let me know she wants to eat. It’s for these reasons that the house is always stocked with cat-friendly treats. They are specifically in the event that I have something that she cannot. We will sit together and enjoy our meal. She is a loud chewer. But it beats the meow and claw combo. Once she finishes, I am sure to know because she will either claw my shoulder and ask for more, or she will hop down from the chair, meow her bitchy meow, and assume her place on the couch to sleep off her latest meal. I am certain she sees herself as a human. I do not have the will or evidence to counter her belief. 

I say bitchy meow as if it were singular, but there are a wide range of bitchy noises she makes. One of my favorites is a disgruntled huff of a meow that would leave even the most petulant of children in awe of her mastery. Thus, while she cannot speak, you are never left wondering what she is thinking. She will make sure you know, one way or another. I am grateful for her straightforwardness. I often find myself having trouble understanding subtext in conversation with other people. I prefer it when people are direct about what they want or need because I will often miss anything even remotely subtle. I know this about myself, and apparently so does she.

The nickname came just a year or so after she became part of my family. Really, it’s not a nickname; I call her bad spoon or simply spoonie more often than I use Hikari. In fact, upon further reflection, I only really use Hikari’s actual name at the vet. Even then, I am certain I have let the spoon moniker slip more than once at the vet’s office. Funny enough, they never ask; they are either too polite to question it or just assume I am as crazy as I know I am. She became the bad spoon as a long string of name jokes, the details of which don’t matter. It stuck with me because I found it funny and to this day I will use similar sounding names in a long string of names when I call for her, pontoon, sad moon, spittoon, monsoon, etc. The name bad spoon seemed to fit for some reason and she approved the change. Sometimes we find better names for ourselves than the ones we are born with. 

For all her bitchiness, she is a very shy cat. She simply dislikes people. There has never been a time when I have had people over and she was visible. I’m not even sure how many people have ever seen her inside my home. If you were a frequent guest, you may think I were delusional. However, I can assure you she is a very real cat. Her favorite place to hide is in my closet on the upper shelf, where my shirts hang just above her perch. I assume the space is comforting because it’s small and well covered. Even when I know she is there, I cannot see her unless I move my shirts. Sometimes, even then, it’s hard to find her. We have a routine for this as well. Once the offending person has left, I call for her. She will meow, promptly exit the closet, and demand that I pet her for the inconvenience. I gladly accept this punishment.

The bad spoon is a snorer. She snores like a 450-pound long-haul trucker. I wish I was exaggerating when I said you could hear her snoring from across the room. It is so bad that I’ve played video of this to the vet, who laughed as much as I imagine you are while reading this story. She was given some allergy medication, which helped just enough to keep the walls from shaking. I have several videos of her snoring that I love to watch when I’m having a bad day. I still do not understand how someone so small can make such a loud noise.

The one non-bitchy meow I hear frequently is when she has her favorite toy mouse. I don’t believe she means for it not to be bitchy. It just comes out muffled because she has a mouse in her mouth. To keep with the theme, you can hear this meow intermixed with the jingle of the toy anywhere in the house. Frankly, I would not be surprised if the neighbors have heard it. Once she decides she has caught us a meal, she will meow continuously until she delivers it. Not always to me, mind you, but wherever she thinks it should go next. This ranges from the bed to the middle of the living room.

Strangely, I cannot recall a time when she brought her mouse to the kitchen. I believe this is because she associates the kitchen with food. If she wants to feed me, she wants to be certain it’s in a place where I do not already have food. She takes care of me like that. I am nearly certain this is because she thinks I am a poor hunter and would starve without her valiant efforts to provide food. I don’t have enough evidence to argue against this.

The bad spoon has been in my life for roughly ten years. I am grateful for every second of it. She initially came into my life when I resumed my undergraduate studies in earnest. This was shortly after my suicide attempt and had regained my stability. She was always a very motherly cat. I believe that she feels like she is taking care of me more than anyone taking care of her. In a lot of ways, she isn’t wrong. So it may not be surprising to hear that I have regularly made her promise me that she will live at least until I finish my PhD. With my graduation come and gone, I am happy to say that she kept her promise with flying colors. She is built like a tank, so I was not surprised in the least that she made it.

Of course with age brings troubles. A few years ago, she developed arthritis in the hips. I had assumed she was getting older and was just generally sleeping more. It was in those days that I made her reaffirm her promise to me to live to the completion of my PhD even more regularly. With a quick vet visit and an x-ray, we easily determined the cause, and I am grateful that the vet pushed to have her as one of the first cats on Solensia. The monthly treatment made her more active than I could remember her ever being, and it made me realize just how easily she could hide being in pain. There’s probably a life lesson in that for all of us really.

She has a tooth that may need to be removed. The vet is hesitant to pull because she also has a heart murmur. The years get to all of us. Even those of us who are so full of bitchiness, death itself keeps its distance. Regardless, for her weight and the amount of food she consumes, she is rail thin. At anywhere from 11 to 12 lbs, which is the top end or really just slightly over for her breed, yet she eats enough to be twice that large. Thus, I am left to assume she is incredibly active at night or has a high metabolism. Maybe being bitchy burns a ton of calories. Maybe I should try that…

To say she is the glue that holds my little family together would be selling her short. Somewhere over the years, she has assumed that she is the adult in the house. Thus, she regularly bathes me, feeds me her toy mouse, and otherwise teaches me to be the best non-cat I can be. There is only one bad spoon. Over the years, my interactions with other cats at the vet helped me confirm this. I guess the same could be said about people. I prefer cats to people, so I won’t be saying the same thing about people. All this to say, over the course of ten years, you make a lot of memories that are hard to share in a single post of any length. Still, I am trying my best because I need you to understand how special of a cat she is.

This way, when I explain that late last year, just a few months after graduation, things took a turn, you’ll understand what happened afterwards. It was really nothing; she started losing weight. My very food-motivated bad spoon dropped nearly two pounds in just a month. Enough that I was alarmed. The vets couldn’t figure out the issue, but she had recently started a new medication. Medication that could cause anorexia in cats. My tank of a bad spoon was obviously being affected by the medication, which we promptly stopped. Sadly, the weight loss did not.

After a few weeks, several tests, and a biopsy, we found the problem. Bowel cancer, and fairly advanced at that. This is where I point out something I think a lot of us tend to forget. Stuff is great. Nice stuff is awesome. Smart phones are practically tiny miracles we can hold in our palms for a few grand. What a deal! But stuff is replaceable. Stuff is mass-produced, and for every tiny miracle of modern convenience I own, there are 10 billion copies floating around. There is only one bad spoon. There was a decision I had to make: either let the cancer run its course or start aggressive and incredibly expensive treatment. You would think I was a billionaire with how quickly I made my choice. I will be paying off this debt for a very long time. Stuff can be replaced; a bad spoon cannot.

Thus, at the end of October last year, we had the diagnosis and started weekly chemotherapy. I have never in my life spent so much money and it’s worth every cent. There are bad days, for sure. Days where she is fed using a syringe and cannot, or will not, move very far. But there have been a lot of really good days too. Days where I forget she is sick and getting treatment. Days where she is full of her old bitchy energy. She is a food-motivated cat. On those days, she feasts to her heart’s content, and I promised that if she were to pass, she would be surrounded by all the food she loved. She kept her promise to make it to graduation. So I made a promise that she would never have to ask for a treat again.

Despite the good days. Despite eating far more calories than she should need. Despite not being so active. Despite all this and more, she continued to lose weight. I cannot describe how weird it is to see my 10–12-pound cat drop to 8 pounds and under so quickly. I feel ashamed to admit it. I sometimes don’t recognize her when I see her. Until she gives her bitchy meow, that is. Thankfully, when she hit that mark, her weight “stabilized,” according to the specialist seeing her for her treatments. When I first got that news, I was excited. Surely she must have gained some weight after all she had been eating. However, after reviewing the notes, she “stabilized” by only dropping a few ounces compared to the week prior. Which is true when compared to the half a pound or so a week she had been losing up to that point.

I’m trying to keep the story happy, of course. She’s a bad spoon, after all. She deserves happy. In the month leading up to her diagnosis, we knew something was wrong because she would bring her favorite mouse around multiple times a day. I am convinced that, at that time, she was trying to teach me how to hunt for myself. She is a food-motivated cat, after all. She must assume I am food-motivated as well. She is not completely wrong in this assumption. I think she was worried about what I would do after she passed. Maybe cats have a better sense of impending death than we do. I certainly did not sense anything wrong with her until it had progressed far enough.

People often say cats are indifferent to the people that care for them. I would disagree. To be fair, I doubt the bad spoon would say she was a cat. If she could talk, that is, which cats cannot. She has that going against her on the I-am-not-a-cat checklist. One day, not that long ago, when she couldn’t even stand, she proved this point. At bedtime, she hobbled to the bed and put all the energy she could muster—energy she didn’t have—in one glorious jump onto the bed. Her front paws left the floor; the rest of her did not.

I scooped her up, because sometimes we all need a helping hand, and placed her in her traditional spot on the bed. Right in the center. How one bitchy cat could take up an entire bed, I will never understand. Over the course of the ten years I spent with her, she somehow managed to routinely make me sleep on the very edge. This particular time was special, though. She put all the energy she could to get onto her spot. Old and bitchy, but still worried about her family. I am convinced that this small act was her way of providing comfort in the end. And really, that’s all you need to know to understand the bad spoon.

The next day, she died at the vet’s office. Natural causes. She hadn’t eaten the day before, so we had hoped the vet would be able to do something to help her. I must apologize for using the wrong tense when talking about the bad spoon. I wasn’t trying to deceive anyone. Well, no one except myself, maybe. Over the last few months, I’ve grouped all the photos I have of her. On average, I took two photos every three days. The time between the first photo and the last is ten years and one day. Some days I wish I had made her promise me more time. Like I had any control over it. I’m reminded that the perfect amount of time to be alive is always the time you have plus one more day. But I am grateful in a way. The cancer gave us an extended goodbye. She got to live comfortably until her last day. It was a small act of kindness from the universe. One I probably didn’t deserve, but I accepted it regardless.

She was buried the same day she passed shortly before sunset. Wrapped in one of her favorite blankets and given a single container of her favorite cat food. I don’t believe in a higher power. I am convinced that this is all we get. If ever proven wrong I will gladly punch whatever higher power would create such a hellish world square in the face. I also believe a funeral is for the living. I found comfort with the idea that she will never be far from her food now. Even if she no longer needs it. Her favorite mouse sits silently next to a framed photo of her on my dresser. When I have the fortitude she will get a headstone that matches the headstone her aforementioned sister got when she passed.

Some days, in the brief moment between sleep and being fully awake, I forget she is gone. On occasion, some odd noise in the house will sound like a distant, bitchy meow. You don’t know how much life a 10-pound cat can bring to a home. Until you remove all the noises she made, that is. I am reminded each eerily quite morning that she is no longer her. I am coping as well as you may expect. Which is to say, not well.

Looking over all the photos and videos I cannot help but laugh at all the memories we had with her. Ten years is a lot of time to live a life and the bad spoon had a lot of life. A very bitchy, very vocal life. A book I was reading gave me some good advice. It was to give the narrative a lighter tone than you think it deserves, lighter than you can bear to give it, because you won’t find the truth of life in morbidity, only in hope.

She was a good, bad spoon. I hope you can see that that was the truth of her life. It has taken me months since I started writing this post to publish it, but I still miss her. Karen O said it best I think when she said, “And I realized that when people die they continue to live through the people that love them. That I’m a mosaic of all these people I’ve loved.” I continue to attempt to live a life my bad spoon would be proud of.