Loving Laverne

Laverne (2011 to 2018)

“She’s just a cat,” I said to James when he rang to discuss an upcoming photoshoot. It sounded like an apology when I admitted feeling down about Laverne’s condition. I revealed that I was still at the vet hospital. But James, in all his wisdom and experience said to me almost chidingly: “She’s not just a cat, Jef, she’s every bit your family and pets are special to us no matter what anybody else thinks.” James should know, he’s got Gidget, a dog so tiny she looked not much bigger than most cats. Gidget was also the mascot of his photography studio and possessed the power break down any barrier, easing even the most trying of clients. She was also good natured and welcoming like our Laverne. That afternoon after we spoke outside the hospital entrance, came a reassuring follow up to her diagnosis from weeks before: Laverne had shown some improvement from her condition as she had been coughing less and eating more. Both Stef and I came away feeling encouraged. We even pondered the possibility of a miracle recovery.

[embed]Munchkins love ‘standing’ on their hind legs when their curiosity is piqued

Laverne was born in the summer of 2011 and arrived from Perth with her sister Ethel to our little one-bedroom apartment in the winter of that year. Unlike Ethel who had a coat of darkest coal, Laverne wore on hers all the colours of autumn: deep browns and ember, and mottled bark-black in a Pollock-esque scatter throughout her body. Both kittens’ eyes shared the same shade of yellowed jade and an insatiable curiosity to venture into every nook and cranny that existed in our tiny space. Their first days with us saw me fearing that they might annoy Stef who had agreed to the idea of pets only after much cajoling: it had been months since I landed a full-time job, with proper monthly wages and all — plus it only seemed fair that we took another step up the great ladder of domesticated living. But Stef took to them like a doting parent. They’re “our girls” he began to say to work mates and everyone that we met, including those beaming over their human children. “Our girls are wonderful too!” he’d chime. For other parents of “fur babies” (a term so ridiculous yet truthful that only pet owners would use), we’d proudly explain their breed: they’re called munchkins, we’d say, cats with very short legs that have a habit of standing up on their hind legs like dachshunds exactly like those ones you see in Japanese cat videos. And if they still weren’t convinced, we’d whip out our smartphones and show photographic (and sometimes video) proof. We’d smile back proudly as our audience crumbled into a mushy pile of cooing. “They’re chatty too!”

Sisters lazing in the spring

But friends of ours who don’t get the idea of pets found the idea of having a cat or dog too ridiculous. To them they were an issue of hygiene and a hindrance to life itself: you had to feed them, clean up after them and spend money on minders when you went on holidays. Why bother? For some, they (cats especially) were pests. Stef’s dad used to exterminate stray cats back in the day in fact: an injection of phenobarbital and then an anonymous burial in the back yard. But we had drunk the Kool Aid. We loved that our girls had found a way to become an indispensable part of our day: Laverne would hop on the bed early every morning without fail, first to wake Stef who left for work at half past six and then me, at seven o’clock (unfortunately for us though, she did this regardless of daylight savings timings). She had a habit of meowing like she was saying: “Now! Now! Now!” Ethel would prefer to rattle the power chords for her morning snack instead. And during the day, depending on the season, they’d have their own routine: in spring they would be running around to stalk birds from the roof’s edge and hang out on our neighbours’ balconies or lazing on our potted plants during summer. Winter was when they’d sleep a bit more and hang around my home-office where I spent my day. And every evening when Stef came home, there’d be two pairs of wide little eyes looking up when he opened the front door. Night time was always the best: after both humans and animals were fed, we’d be in the lounge watching television on the sofa together, both cats on our respective laps at the best of times. On cold winter nights, both Laverne and Ethel would curl up in bed with us and we’d form our cosy little bubble of love where everyone was safe.

Laverne and her favourite flower

Laverne my co-worker

The years that followed were drama-free and not out of the ordinary at all: we watched how our new next-door neighbours Sam and Ian’s new babies become happy toddlers and took to our common corridor just as excitedly as our girls who quickly became their friends. Everyone agreed that they bore a pleasant demeanour too — they never once snarled or hissed in anger nor raised a paw to swipe. Ethel and Laverne would race each other up and down the carpeted thoroughfare just like Caitlyn and Tom and you could hear the plod-plod-plod of their paws from inside our apartment. Sometimes I would let the girls wait for Stef as he made his way up the stairs, so Ethel and Laverne would perch themselves at the doors of the elevator or main stairway in anticipation. In the quiet hours of the day, both of them would spend their time sleeping on the couch left of my desk. I’d steal glances at them as they napped and catch myself smiling. And when it came time to have our naps, mostly on weekends after a boozy lunch (my favourite thing in the world), I’d always wake to find Laverne just inches from my face. Stef would have his moments too, with Ethel asleep on his tummy in the lounge where a black-and-white movie played. These simple things that enriched our lives brought us joy but made us homesick the minute we went on holiday. “They have each other darl,” I’d reassure Stef when he pined for them. After all, it was his idea to not have one cat but two, so no one would ever be left lonely. We’d imagine them playing catch like they do even with us around sometimes. I’d spy Ethel waiting to pounce on Laverne when she emerged from the toilet and vice versa. Even on the most anxious of nights, I could fall asleep simply thinking of them.

Stef and Lav

With the passing daily routines and rituals, we hardly took notice of the seven years that came and went and were naturally oblivious to life’s unexpected things that have the habit of sneaking up without anyone noticing, like the cancer in Laverne’s body. Over a year ago, her listlessness started to show: she didn’t seem to be interested much in food or play. Ethel simply ate up her share so while she grew in size, Laverne shrunk. We blamed Ethel of course for being so greedy. But Laverne also began to withdraw from her usual happy, adventurous self. She even appeared to be irritated by Ethel’s presence, choosing to stay away whenever she was with us. Calls of “Ethel, where’s your sister?” and “La-verrrrne! Come on!” were constant and typical. We even purchased a fancy auto-feeder for Laverne that opened its lid when it detected her microchip so that she gets her fair share of dinner which now consisted mostly of dried kibble. Laverne grazed all through the night, we know this from the mechanical sounds of the lid opening and shutting.

[embed]The decline: weight loss, sparse fur

We took Laverne to the specialist over two months ago when her constant coughs showed no signs of abating and injections at the vet didn’t seem to work. It’s heartbreaking to hear a little creature like her coughing and wheezing. Her whole body convulsed as she tried to catch her breath after each attack. Some x-rays and an ultra-sound later, Laverne was diagnosed with an abnormal heart growth: her heart had become so large it was tenting her respiratory passageway. It suddenly made sense why she grew reluctant of eating. I went home and wept that day. Both of us had decided at the very start, after being prompted by stories of other pet owners spending a fortune on expensive treatments, that we wouldn’t be going that way: our girls were animals at the end of the day and when that time came, we would be merciful and swift. But what we weren’t prepared for was the day coming so soon. So, when Laverne showed signs of improvement, we took her back to the specialist for the follow-up. The specialist agreed that there would really be no point in chemo or pills as they would buy her nine months at best. “Just watch out for when things get too uncomfortable,” Dr Ciavarella said.

The blockage just above her heart

Coming to terms with the eventuality hadn’t been easy for us: I could not bear leaving the apartment with Laverne constantly stationary on the sofa in the study, laboured in her breathing. Her weight was decreasing fast and her soft gorgeous fur began to appear sparse, mangy even. Even lap time was brief. I barely had more than a few seconds to nuzzle my lips on the back of her head (she used to spend up to an hour in healthier times). In despair I’d ring Stef and sob over the phone (he’d been traveling constantly for work). Last weekend became the much-needed respite for him and he landed on Friday night, exhausted and travel-weary. He arrived home and took one look at Laverne and remarked that she didn’t look right. And I confirmed that she hadn’t been ‘doing her business’ in the litterbox, something that Ian’s Charlie was prone to doing before he passed. Stef picked Laverne up and cradled her like he usually does and whispered: “You’re as light as a feather baby, the wind is going to carry you away if you’re not careful.”

I had been telling myself in the weeks after her diagnosis that I could handle it. I’d watch my friends lose their fur babies only months before: there was Michelle’s Gusmao, Ian’s Charlie, Cheryl’s Beso, Amanda’s Nutmeg and Lynda’s Oreo. They all put up their last favourite photos on Facebook and received condolences in turn and we’d all exchange our well wishes, peppered with emojis of the love heart symbol, or the heartbreak and sad face ones. Yet I couldn’t bear the thought of doing the same. But here we were on the Saturday morning of the blood-red moon, back in the familiar hospital examination room and its sterile fluorescent lighting and disinfectant smells. The vet had been called away for an emergency and we were forced to endure an agonizing wait for ‘the deed’ to be done. Looking back, I am grateful now for the time because in what seemed like hours, Laverne showed us just how much she loved us: she took turns to nuzzle us, first with me and Stef afterwards. She’d bury her little head in the corners of our forearms before resting her chin on our hands. She moved at her own pace. By the time the vet was ready with the injections, Laverne had retreated to her box with her head peering out of its door. This was the same box that used to fit both her and Ethel when they first landed and the same box that she’d escape to whenever she felt threatened. So here she laid, her chin calmly resting on the back of my hand as I hummed her name over and over again like a lullaby. I can’t remember how or who gave the go-ahead. I can only recall the slow movement of green fluid inching its way up the tiny tube attached to Laverne’s hind leg. She drew her last breath and took with her the hearts of a middle-aged couple who loved her from day one. We took turns to kiss her lifeless body while we wept and left the hospital.

A gift from a talented friend, Bill Wood

Someone once said that the reason animals appear to show any affection to us is because it was always food they were after, and that we were all simply projecting our human persona onto them. I reject this. Cats and dogs have the ability to show us a side of ourselves when they offer their unconditional love. One look into their eyes and one can immediately find our better nature: they harbour no ill will, bear no grudges and show us how easy it is to forgive. They have no ability to calculate nor judge and for those reasons alone, are better than many humans I know. Laverne had the uncanny ability to sense when something wasn’t right: when I was overly stressed or anxious or simply having a bad day and she’d hop up on my lap and lick my hand or forehead. It was her way of saying it was all going to be okay. In fact, she never ever stopped telling us she loved us — our little Laverne whose heart was too big for her body — even as her life was slipping through our fingers.

It has been exactly a week since she left us. I cannot say with full confidence that I have recovered. I suspect it would take some time. I have requested Stef to leave her automatic feeder in its spot for at least another few days as some sort of memorial and I light the candle by the vase of brush flowers. From time to time, I turn to the sofa on my left where Laverne used to rest and feel a stab of pain; every morning I still ache for her wake-up call. I glance over at familiar corners where she napped and watch my steps at night when I walk over her familiar resting points. Our heart aches too when we see Ethel rise to look about for her sister who is never coming home. Ethel sometimes waits at our front door or races up the corridor as if to expect Laverne coming home like her dads only to skulk indoors, sullen with head hung low when her sister failed to appear. It devastates us to see this so our eyes always well up when she does this. But she’ll get over it, we say to each other, half regretting not taking her along with us that Saturday. But until that happens, we will be loving this little black one with all our might and all that the days ahead can afford us.

Goodnight our little Laverne