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IN REMEMBRANCE OF OLIVER

All black and with a heart of gold, he graced our lives for just six short years. Bawling for food anytime he was awake, he grew from a tiny infant with his eyes just opening to a hefty 17 pounds. He had an odd walk that seemed to bounce the floorboards and was uncomfortable being held on a lap but we were to discover it was a health problem that made him uncomfortable with any but the right accommodations.

He had a rough start and had to be burped, like a baby, several times during a meal. He would fall unconscious into his dish and would have to be "rescued" time and time again. I was so happy when he could graduate to dry food and at roughly 8 months of age, seemed to outgrow the need for burping.

Sometime in his early life, he learned to tell time. In the evening I would tell him when I had to be up the next morning and he would wake me on time. When he was young, he would stick his nose in my ear and purr as loudly as he possibly could. When he grew older he found more ways to make sure I didn't oversleep by laying on my chest and yowling in my face while kneading my neck or standing on top of me and pushing at my face with his nose or paws. Occasionally we would wake and see him with hind feet on the bed, front feet on the nightstand and his face right up to the clock, staring as though to make the clock go faster till wake up time.

When someone sent me an animated clip of a cat waking his person, it had to be Oliver. Even the meow sounded like my baby. He was just as insistent, just as square shaped and just as cute. His face never matured. It stayed the proverbial "baby-face" with his large, very green eyes in a shining black face.

While going through my cancer treatments, he became my constant companion. Beside me on the bed or the couch or laying at my feet, he would put one paw on me as if to say, "I'm here and it will be okay". Maybe a quiet, little, meow in case he thought I didn't notice.

By the time we knew something was dreadfully wrong, it was probably too late to save him but four veterinarian clinics and many vet techs did everything possible, through the entire weekend, to try to get him ready for surgery on Monday. His body was not cooperating. At 10:30 last night, June 8th, 2008, we were told that the best thing would be to come and say our goodbyes.

Gasping for air, with an oxygen tube in his nose, they had at least removed the IV line when they brought him in to us. After moments far too short, he had reaffirmed his love for us. His beautiful green eyes were searching for peace so we gave our consent then sobbed, sitting in a sterile room that had just been graced by the best of cats.

Although the pain of losing him is still so fresh, it's hard not to think of the times that he made us laugh. He will be missed. Greatly.

Learn more about this author, Laura Strebel.
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