Rupert, boycat, former feral, captured with siblings at four weeks, a spitting, needle-toothed potato-sized ball of fury and fear, eyes crusted shut with infection and teeming with fleas. Bottle fed for two weeks (when he bit off the rubber nipple, I figured it was time for weaning) easily domesticated. Handled constantly and all over, the early bonding that takes away wariness of humans and makes for an affectionate pet once grown. Racing around the "kitten room" -- the sun porch -- growling ferociously around the tiny yellow catnip mouse in his mouth lest any other kitten steal his favorite toy. Master of the kitten hop, that sideways skittery bounce intended to intimidate -- but only inciting laughter. Immediate slave to Peabody on Pea's first visit to the kitten room. Pitiful cries at the porch door when Pea left the room. Pea hanging out at the door, the two of them exchanging deep meaningful gazes through the glass. Inseparable when on the same side of the glass, playing or cuddling together. The runt, not the prettiest or smartest of the bunch, the odd, funny, furry, favorite.
At nine weeks, time came to take the motley crew to the SPCA. Turned out to be the last batch of kittens produced by our backyard feral tribe, the years of trapping, spaying and releasing finally having succeeded in stemming the tide of kittens. Rupert's piercing squeak was the loudest from the swarming ball of fur in the cat carrier, his terror patent. I cried as I handed them over. Ten minutes later, I was back at the counter, swimming in tears and snot, haunted by his stricken face against the mesh of the carrier. We had three cats, four was over the line, verging into Crazy Cat Lady territory, but the hell with it. I couldn't break up the feline romance. Begging for the return of the silver gray tabby (he was then called "Silver"). The humorless SPCA workers demanded the full adoption fee, and after a feeble protest, paid it, cuddled him all the way home. A joyous reunion with Pea.
Two days later, he received his name from a co-worker of mine who was a fan of Rupert Holmes ("The Pina Colada Song") and who was horrified by our first choice, Percy. We wanted a sissy, girly-man English half-wit name, his personality. My ex liked the reference to Rupert Everett, a favorite Brit poof actor. I liked the reference to Rupert Pupkin, the nerdy comic wannabe who goes to insane lengths to become "The King of Comedy" in the Scorcese film of the same name. Roo for short. It was a perfect fit.
He was as brainless as most kittens, fearlessly destroying the living room curtains, climbing them paw-over-claw-studded-paw, sweet and loving to Pea and us, in that order. Yet he retained his feral fear of strangers. Guests to our house came to believe the new cat was a delusional fiction as he hid in the farthest corner under the bed at the slightest provocation. He gradually came to know our most frequent visitors and greeted them with his signature squeak and his unique maneuver for attention: a sideways flop and roll onto his back, belly bared for rubs, motionless, upside-down eyes staring glassily at you. "Awwww, the kitten died," we'd say, and reward his idiocy with vigorous belly rubs. Now he is nearly fearless, and immediately approaches newcomers. Sometimes, late at night, he is gripped by existential dread, and his squeaking becomes long, melodic yowls. I awake to his arias (usually conducted at the top of a staircase), and console him. He cheers up immediately.
He could develop strange phobias, and when stressed, does so to this day. He was unaccountably alarmed by hats. He'd hiss and retreat, fur puffed, if either I or my ex wore so much as a baseball cap in the house. My ex habitually wore black, only black, head to toe (not counting socks or boxers) as a rule. One night, when Roo was a couple of years old, the ex donned a white dress shirt to wear with his tux for a formal occasion. Roo reacted as if, well, as if he'd seen a hat. On the other hand, his endless quirkiness had its charming side. He'd chase kibble if slid one by one across the kitchen floor, and came to beg for the Kibble Game, in his never-changing castrato squeak. "Yip, yip, squeeeeeeeeek!" He learned his one and only trick: a pirouette leap of joy to head bump my hand if I extended it stationary two feet over his head. He'd jump in any tub as soon as it emptied, hunkering down onto the damp porcelain's retained heat. Unless provoked by hats, shirts, or vacuum cleaners, he was joyous at all times, relishing life, food, and the nightly wrestling match with Peabody. The arena was the center of the living room rug. Rupert would pace around Pea, growling and gesticulating menacingly, posing his little potato body in threatening poses. Pea would stare at him, completely unruffled, and when he'd had enough of the theatrics, would reach out one languid paw and pin Roo with ease. At first. Then Roo grew. And grew and grew and grew, to be nearly twice Pea's body size (his head remains unsettlingly small for his massive frame). The matches became more and more of a contest, and the first night Roo won was the last time Pea entered the ring.
Yet at seven years old, Roo is still mentally a kitten. He's sure he's still the adorable ball of fluff that first charmed us. He sleeps more and is not nearly as manic, but he is still The King of Comedy, still madly in love with Pea (who sometimes has a haggard look when Roo flops on top of him for a cuddle), still loves belly rubs, and has totally lost his fear of strangers. He's known nothing but love his whole life, and is simply the happiest, most loving cat I've ever owned. He's hopelessly inbred -- he comes from the shallow end of the gene pool -- and often forgets his own name. I don't worry too much about traumatizing him deeply, because no matter how often I move or introduce other changes, no matter how inconsolable he seems, in a day or two, he forgets life was ever different and returns to his happy-go-lucky self. Rupert is a sunshine cat -- I understand from parents of children with Down's Syndrome that his limited powers of understanding shield him from unpleasantness and grant him limitless good cheer, a joy to behold. He is a pig, and will eat anything, even beans, with gusto, resulting in a weight pushing 20 pounds. He is light on his feet, however, and has a tiptoe gait that prompted friend Paula to comment, "He looks like he wears high heels." He loves life, loves the world, and his mental simplicity, good cheer, and bottomless affection always makes me smile.
He seemed to settle into our new home within 24 hours. Peabody remembered living here before and, although clearly not delighted with the change, bore it with his usual stoic dignity. Kitch the Bitch, my criminally insane Maine Coon female, leaped about in a manic frenzy -- dog-like, she's satisfied to live anywhere I do, as long as there's something or someone to fuck with. Rupert was totally at sea but as expected, by the second day had totally forgotten he had ever lived anywhere else. The third night hear, I woke to hear Rupert throwing up in the entry hall. He's always been a bit pukey, vomiting about every three or four days, usually a tidy pile of just-swallowed kibble because he eats too fast. I figured I'd find it in the morning and went back to sleep. In the morning, I found three huge pools of blood on the floor. No food, just slightly watery fresh blood. I mopped it up and went in a panicked search for Roo. He was lazing, unconcerned, in the morning sun. I called the vet, and because it was her day off, the receptionist recommended taking him to the local pet hospital -- a veritable Mayo Clinic for house pets. I knew it from the specialized and highly advanced diagnostics and treatments they gave Peabody during his recent mysterious illness (never diagnosed completely, but now in seeming remission with two medications). When I went back to put Rupert in the cat carrier, I found a new pool of blood, larger than any previous.
Roo stayed in hospital three days for a total bill of over two thousand dollars. I hope someday human health care advances to the expert and empathic care he was given there. I visited him and met with vets daily. With each visit, I was referred to a higher degree of specialist to discuss his diagnosis and prognosis -- ER, internist, and finally oncologist. He was terrified and increasingly bald as they shaved his forelegs (for multiple IV lines) and belly (for ultrasound). It would take longer and longer spells of cuddling for him to stop trembling and purr, comforted, in my arms. His vomiting had been controlled with massive doses of antacids and other nostrums. The final biopsy and ultrasound confirmed the worst news possible: large-cell lymphoma had completely lined the walls of his stomach to a depth of nearly a full centimeter, was extending up and down the GI tract, was beginning to affect his kidneys, was inoperable, and only marginally responsive to chemotherapy.
He could come home, as he was pain-free and asymptomatic as long as I continued to medicate him with a battery of digestive palliatives and the twice-a-day administration of prednisone for chemo, on the off-chance he could be coaxed into temporary remission. Without treatment, he had three to six weeks -- best case with medication was eight to 12 months. For three days, I followed the exacting med schedule faithfully, which required my constant attendance -- nothing longer than a half-hour trip to the grocery. Six times a day I, hunted him down, pinned his struggling body to the floor, and squirting slurries of dissolved pills and noxious stinky suspensions down his throat with an oral syringe nearly the size of a turkey baster. To say he was unhappy is putting it mildly. He ran from the room when he saw me and would not allow any human contact. By the fourth morning, he had reverted to his feral self and disappeared for five hours. I turned the entire house upside down, calling, parading past every corner with an open can of tuna fish. Ordinarily, he comes running at the sound of the can opener. I finally found his fat body wedged in the three-inch-wide crack between the television and the cabinet upstairs. I reached, he hissed, eyes black with terror. This was not Rupert Pupkin, King of Comedy. This was every miserable alley cat in his genetic heritage, wild, uncomprehending, and fighting for survival.
Then and there I decided that this was no life for his sweet self. He was doomed, no matter what, and his remaining days were better brief but happy. I faced a similar situation a few months before my father died, while in the twilight of Alzheimer's. He had all the signs of prostate cancer, only to be confirmed by biopsy. The doctor, bless his heart, spelled out the options, but reminded me that the diagnostic process thus far had caused Daddy only confusion and distress. "It's not going to be cancer that kills him," he said. He was right. I called Rupert's oncologist and tried to explain. If I could medicate him at most once a day, some super combination of panaceas, he might still have a happy life, but I steadfastly refused to make his life a torture. Of course, the World of Medicine was horrified. The oncologist had all his different vets call me individually to upbraid me for my callous, foolish decision. I could Extend His Life! I was consigning him to An Early, Unnecessary Death! The phrase "quality of life" had no meaning to these well-meaning, blinkered scientists. Finally, grudgingly, they cobbled together a mixture of liquid medicine for once-a-day administration, grumbling bitterly that I could not expect "optimal results." As I hung up the phone, Rupert gazed at me dreamily from his favorite couch cushion, purring, loving, happy again after a day without any forced medication and a diet of his favorite treats. I buried my face in his fur and cried deep wrenching sobs of grief and frustration.
Today I pick up the magic elixir, no doubt delivered with arch stares of disapproval. Fuck 'em. Roo seems completely unconcerned by any malady, his dim little head full of the usual butterflies and sunshine. This morning I found a small puddle of fresh vomit (blood-free), so I want to at least calm the stomach and spare him pain, but if one dose a day still makes him unhappy, it's out the window. When the time comes that his symptoms cause him distress, when the blood reappears, I'll call the death truck -- the visiting vet who can humanely end his unhappiness. I've done it before, it sucks horribly for me, but is best for him. When I first held him, I vowed to give him a life of love and comfort. It's my story and I'm sticking with it.
Today's update is that although the Red Cross won't let me help humans, I'm considered OK for animals, so I'm working with the animal shelters as a volunteer -- I'm on call to the Ventura County shelters, the Humane Society about half an hour away, and the Los Angeles ASPCA (about an hour and a half away, and it's surprisingly shabby). 
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