by Sharon Cheuk

Created on: June 24, 2010

Gotti was a battle-scarred male tabby. An abandoned stray, we often saw him lurking around our garage. His face had so much scar tissue, probably accumulated from countless fights with other males, that it appeared thickened, and his cheeks puffed out.

"He looks like a mafia boss," my husband Paul commented. You could almost imagine him with a cigar hanging out of his lips, looking prosperous. Hence we christened him Gotti.

Gotti loved sleeping on the hood of Paul's car, leaving behind muddy paw prints. This annoyed Paul greatly, who would mutter threats about poisoning him under his breath. But one day, after one such incident, I whistled to Gotti and stroked his back. He rolled over in ecstasy and purred. Paul promptly forgot his threats and started regarding Gotti with something approaching tolerance.

One day, a black male cat appeared on Gotti's turf. The younger, fitter cat must have challenged Gotti to many fights, which the latter probably lost, because he appeared thinner and even more battle-scarred. His ears appeared more chewed up. We found out from the vet, much later, that he'd had mange too. We felt sorry for Gotti, but this was the law of the jungle. Survival of the fittest. You could prevent cruelty to animals by humans, but the law of nature you had to respect.

Yesterday morning, we saw Gotti on the pavement in front of our apartment. He'd been in his worst fight ever. His mouth was bloody and his paws were bathed in blood. Flies buzzed around him. A most pathetic sight. But he was still alive. He meowed and responded to strokes. He tried to sit up and succeeded. He was dignified still. But he looked tired. He couldn't survive another fight like this.

We looked at each other, and understood what the other thought. It was time.

The vet was kind enough. She shot him with sedatives and then something that helped him go peacefully. And even then, Gotti resisted the needle - a fighter to the very end.

I still feel unbearably sad, as I write this now. This morning Paul told me he saw a pretty butterfly at the pavement where Gotti was found. In the vein of Japanese dramas, it seemed to indicate that Gotti is fine and in heaven with Jesus.

"We've sent him to a better home," Paul had said, trying to comfort himself as well as me.

I'm sure that cats receive a whole new body after they die. I'm sure the chewed up ears are restored. I'm sure the the scar tissue is renewed. And I'm sure we'll see Gotti again one day.

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