My cat of 17 years died today.  Actually I chose to put him down.  That was 5 hours ago, but it’s been 5 hours of second guessing.  Did I make the right decision?  Could we have fought through this latest set of problems?  Would things have been different if I had acted sooner?

I could list all the problems, going back to last November, and you’d say it was a reasonable decision, that he was suffering, especially these past few days, and it would require more suffering for a chance of getting back to some level of stability.  And while that stability might have lasted months or years, he could also be back in this same position in just a few weeks.

Augusto asked me what did my gut say.  He thinks it’s best to always go with your gut.  But while my head says this was the right decision, my gut says never give up.  That comes from living through a plague, I guess.  I’m telling myself I made the logical decision, but I also hear a voice saying I made the decision too quickly.  I had pretty much made up my mind before talking to the vet today.  See my twitter post “One last day in the sun” and others. Nick and Martin had come over yesterday to say their goodbyes.  But today the vet said I could give him subQ fluids every day for the next week and force 300 calories daily into him, and the herpes like sores on his tongue, throat and esophagus might heal and he’d start eating on his own again. But it had been such a battle this weekend to get even 30 ml and 50 calories into him, I don’t think neither he nor I could handle it.  And that’s the part that gnaws at me.  I should have been able to handle this.  I’m suppose to be able to handle anything.

With his brother, Alex, who died two years ago in two weeks, we didn’t have to make this decision. His body just slowly gave out. He was not in pain, I think.  He just drifted away.  And we knew that weekend that it was going to happen soon.  We spent that Sunday with him.   When he passed, it was very peaceful.  For Oscar, having to choose which day for him to die was really hard. Now I’ve been looking at old pics, seeing how beautiful and healthy he was, and I think I gave up too soon.  But then I look at all the pics I took yesterday and today and think, no it was time.

Nick and I got  Alex and Oscar from a girl who rescued kitties and worked at JPL-NASA, where I was working at the time.  They were 6-8 weeks old and part of a litter of 4.  I was only expecting to get one, but after I told the girl that I’ll take this one (don’t remember whether that was Alex or Oscar), the other climbed up on my lap and said “You know you’re not leaving without me.”  I said “Yeah, I know”, and took the two home.  We didn’t have cell phones back then, but Nick, being a doctor, had a pager, so I paged him a single character, 2. He was at one of his meetings at the time, and squealed out loud with joy.

On the way home from Pasadena, Oscar curled up on the back seat and fell asleep, while Alex was all frightened, and climbed up on my lap and onto my chest and I held him tight the 20 minute drive to Hollywood.  (At six weeks old he could fit into the palm of my hand).  This pretty much defined their personalities for the next 15 years.  Alex was high maintenance. Oscar was nonchalant.  Alex you always needed to watch out for, Oscar could take care of himself.  Neither were afraid of people, though.  In fact they’d run to the front door if they heard the door bell ring.

I suppose if I’m here to reminisce about Oscar the cat, I need to also reminisce about his namesake.

Nick had wanted a female cat, and was going to name it Alexis (after Alexis Morrell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan of course). But we got two boys, so Alexis became Alex. I got to choose the other one’s name.  I named Oscar after a boy I hardly knew.

Prior to the availability of protease inhibitors, which made HIV a relatively manageable disease, people had a lot of misunderstanding, apprehension and fear of AIDS.  Even the gays. Especially the gays. And of course blood relatives. (OK, that’s all still true today, but not as bad.) Back then you rarely told anyone you were positive, but once the symptoms of full blown AIDS showed up, everyone knew.  And way too often guys would find out their good friends weren’t very good friends at all.

I had gone over to some guy’s house just south of WeHo, someone I had only recently met, to lay by his pool, and Oscar was there too.  Oscar had been living in the guest house since losing his job.  He was a few years older than me, so that would mean mid to late 30s, and tall and handsome.  He had been an all star high school quarterback from Texas, had been Home Coming King, was certainly part of the “A-list” in WeHo, being invited to all the right parties, etc. He continued to be a jock, was on all sorts of sports teams here.  But then he developed full blown AIDS and his friends suddenly were no where to be found.  His Tex-Mex familia had abandoned him too, so he couldn’t go back to his small town in Texas.

Back then there were many different ways to succumb to AIDS, lots of opportunistic infections and wasting.  Things that destroy your body without affecting your mind.  But there was one, AIDS Related Dementia, that took your mind leaving your body intact.  This is what Oscar had.

I met Oscar just as it was being confirmed that he had full blown AIDS.  We had a few dinners, talked on the phone a half dozen times, and sat by his pool a few sunny days. (Once he wanted to toss the football back and forth, but it didn’t take very long to show how bad of an idea that was. I am unable to either catch or throw a ball.)  But the dementia set in quickly and within 4 or 6 weeks, he was unable to take care of himself and was put into hospice care where he died a few weeks later. I cried. And for some reason, a few years later I named my tiny orange kitten after him.  Oscar the cat kept me company for 17 years.  And then he died.  And I cried again.