Information


Schmeow has a minion!

Scotch the Patches




Schmeow
Legacy Name: Schmeow


The Nostalgic Feli
Owner: Possum

Age: 7 years, 6 months, 3 weeks

Born: September 3rd, 2016

Adopted: 7 years, 6 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: September 3rd, 2016


Pet Spotlight Winner
January 16th, 2018

Statistics


  • Level: 1
     
  • Strength: 14
     
  • Defense: 12
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 12
     
  • HP: 12/12
     
  • Intelligence: 13
     
  • Books Read: 13
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed


"Mao."

You came into my life as a Christmas present on December 24th, 2004. I was told that you were “about eight weeks, maybe nine,” which placed your birthday around mid-to-late October. I fell in love with you and your big blue eyes instantly. You spent your first night in your new home, sleeping inside your cat carrier in my room. Then it was off to the vet for neutering. You spent the next two weeks after that back at the house in which you were born, recovering from your surgery. I named you Schmeow, the word my older brother liked to call cats when we were younger.

You were a very picky eater. The only cat food brand you would eat without vomiting was Iams. You liked salmon, though, and on more than one occasion, I caught you sticking your face into bowls of ice cream or cups of yogurt. Sometimes you'd lick butter off of pieces of popcorn that landed on the floor. But you never weighed more than 12 pounds; this was something that always annoyed the vet, who said you needed to gain weight.

You didn't meow. Your vocabulary was very limited, mostly grunts and the occasional "mao," which was the closest thing to a "meow." But you purred very loudly, especially from Dad's lap. You only came to rest on mine if he'd gone off to bed. I guess there was something about him that you liked more. Maybe it was because he didn't take pictures of you.

For the first two years of your life, you slept upside-down, legs sticking out at odd angles. I guess it was comfortable for you. But you eventually stopped the contortionism, and began to sleep more like a sea otter - on your back, forelegs curled in, hindlegs stretched out. You especially liked lying that way in the sun. I rarely ever found you sleeping in any other position.

The seizures started a few months before your second birthday. We couldn't figure out what caused them. The vet looked you over, and suggested that it could be fleas - though you were an indoor-only cat due to lacking your front claws (a procedure my father had paid to have done during your neutering, unbeknownst to me at the time of), fleas had made their way to you. She gave you a pill to kill them, then a small allergy shot, and a flea medication was recommended. "If he starts having seizures again next month, give me a call and we'll run some tests."

The seizures never came back, so the vet concluded that you had an allergy to flea saliva. And so it seemed to be, for as long as you had your topical medication every month, you were fine. On the advice of the vet, Children's Benadryl was administered in the event of medication being late in the mail, to avoid allergy or seizure problems.

You were a good boy, though. A little dumb, perhaps, but a good boy. You didn't like active playing with toys, choosing to walk away if I waved a feather wand at you (only for me to find you playing with it by yourself later that same day). I could tell you were lonely. Since you lacked claws, you couldn't climb fences and play with the other cats in the neighborhood. Which kept you out of trouble, sure, but I could tell you were lonely. Certain cats visited you at night, and I'd hear them meowing, and you responding: "Mao."

One of those cats, we joked, was your girlfriend. A pretty little Siamese, she always came around our house whenever she was in heat, yowling. Turned out she belonged to the family three houses down from ours. I got to chat them up once, when we went on our walk one nice summer day and saw the Siamese rolling around in the grass. The mother called you beautiful, asked if you were intact. I told her no, you'd been fixed a few years before. She said it was a pity, that the two of you could have made beautiful kittens. I agreed. The family moved away a year or so later, and the pretty little Siamese never came around again. You seemed saddened.

Those walks we had were fun, though. You always wanted to stop at this large tree not far from our front door. You would lie there in the shade, roll in the grass, chew on it briefly, and get fallen leaves stuck in your fur (and guess who would have to spend a half-hour combing them out? Me). Then we'd be on our way. My boyfriend once suggested we put you on the playground slide since you seemed curious about it. The static electricity turned you into an even bigger fluffball, and you were no longer curious about the slide.

I trained you well; as well as a cat CAN be trained, anyhow. You knew to head to the sliding glass door that led to our enclosed patio whenever you needed to use the litterbox. You knew how to "Mao" whenever you wanted back inside, in case we had walked away from the door. I even trained you to give "Kitty Kisses." I'd pick you up, give you a small kiss on the nose (or between your eyes). You'd then lick my nose or between my eyes, roughly in the same place I kissed you. You did this without fail, and even sometimes without an actual kiss by me (I'd pucker my lips, and you'd 'kiss'). It's these "kisses" I miss the most.

In August 2011, I adopted a stray calico kitten I named Butterscotch, or 'Scotch' for short (though if I'd noticed the mismatched orange-and-black pattern of her hindlegs sooner, she would've been named 'Harley'). She hated you at first, when all you wanted was to be her friend. When you first approached her, she hissed and scratched your face. But it wasn't her fault, she'd only ever known fighting before. She turned out to be quite the crazy little scrapper, fighting raccoons more than double her size and anything that came near our house. And she still does. I don't think you'd be surprised to know that. You two eventually became friends, but she'd still smack you with her claws whenever she felt like it.

In late February of 2013, I had a much-needed surgery, and was in a state of pain I can't even begin to describe (a few days later, it was revealed that much of my suffering was unnecessary - brought on by an improperly wrapped splint). But you didn't know that. You just knew that I was hurt. I cried and screamed through the pain. You were far more comforting than Scotch, who tried to attack my exposed toes at every opportunity. You, at least, would sit on my chest and give "kisses" in an attempt to make me feel better.

March 8th changed everything, though. I woke up at two in the morning after the pain medication had worn off. You came downstairs at some point, and I noticed something I hadn't seen in years. Your eyes were larger than normal, with very little blue showing. And you had foamy saliva dripping from your mouth. The last time I had seen these signs, you were spasming on the ground, tearing out your gorgeous mocha fur and pissing uncontrollably only moments before. These were post-seizure signs.

You walked towards the glass door leading to the patio. I grabbed my crutches and did my best to hobble in your direction. There was still some foam dripping from your mouth, but most of it had been absorbed by your neck fur. I gingerly bent over, balancing myself against the kitchen counter, and picked you up. Your eyes were practically nothing but black pools. It scared me to death. I cleaned your mouth up with a nearby dishtowel - thankfully, no color present in the foam - and scratched behind your ears, You purred, though it sounded weaker than usual. I held you in my arms, telling you that everything was going to be okay. It was then that I noticed the smell.

Looking down, I noticed that you had pooped on the floor. I laughed though I was deeply concerned - you rarely had accidents in the house, with most of them being pee-puddles left in protest of something, like new furniture or your favorite blanket being washed. I sighed, and let you go out onto the patio. I didn't give any indication that I was angry, because I wasn't. I was scared that something bad had happened.

I won't speak of what happened immediately after, in order to preserve my own dignity (but yes, it involved your poop and me being helpless). My father helped me back to the couch - I was stuck downstairs during my recovery - and cleaned up the mess. Thankfully I didn't need to be cleaned. At least I had that going for me that night. I told him what had happened. He told me to have my boyfriend check on you when he arrived in the morning, and that if you looked the same or worse, to take you to the vet.

A trip to the vet wasn't necessary, however. Sometime between 4:30 (when I was rescued from the floor by my father), and 11 (when Jeremy arrived), you passed away. You died alone. The last words I had said to you were that you smelled like shit. You went behind the barbecue grill to die, lying on your back like an otter. Jeremy told me that when he first saw you, he assumed you were asleep. He said you looked peaceful. He gathered you up in a white garbage bag. I couldn't even bear to look at you. I didn't, couldn't say goodbye.

Due to the knowledge that the Home Owner's Association would throw a fit if we buried you under your favorite tree (which was technically on community property), I had him take you back to his house, and bury you in his backyard. At least that way I could visit you whenever I wanted. Once I was able to walk again, we planted some of the flowers you liked at the place where he buried you only weeks before. The drought went into full swing that summer and the flowers died, but I think you would have liked them while they lasted.

I still go back there and visit you every now and then. As of writing this, it's been four years since you've passed. And it hasn't gotten any easier. I still cry whenever I think about you. I'm crying as I write this. Every year in late October, I think of you and how you'd be another year older - you didn't even live to see your ninth birthday. Every Christmas Eve, I think of you and your bright blue eyes, peeking out at me from the arms of my father's former roommate (whose mother bred your family as companion animals). And every March 8th, I've visited you to tell you how much I miss you.

I'll always miss you, Schmeow. Perhaps someday we'll meet again.
October 2004 - March 8th, 2013


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