12 years, 3 months and 10 days

12 years, 3 months and 10 days.

That's a long time.

That's a decent run.

That's how long I've had my cat Wilshire. Unfortunately, that's all the time I will get with him. Like all creatures, his time has come, and unfortunately for me that time is today. And probably for his sake none too soon. Illness has robbed him of his weight, his size, his balance and surprising agility for being such a large cat and even here at the end his unnaturally loud purr. But it never robbed him of his spunk, his loud meow, his dignity and his love for me.

Wilshire came into my life by fortuitous happenstance. He needed a, what was to be temporary, place to stay. I, being unemployed at the time, had the time and space to help out a vagabond cat. And as times were rough at that point in my life for more than a few reasons, I figured having an animal around, for even just two months, would be a good thing. After a rough, but comical, start, it was one of the greatest things to happen to me.

To say our first day together was a disaster would be an understatement. I found out the hard way Wilshire does not like to travel in cars, as he yelled at me from Santa Monica to Studio City. He also managed to poop in his carrier in his upset frame of mind, which then found its way all around my apartment. I made the mistake of opening his carrier outside the bathroom. A mistake, thankfully, I never made again whenever he needed to travel. Following a Three Stooges style chase scene, he was locked, clawing and screaming, into the bathroom while I cleaned the house. Then came the fun of cleaning him, which should be a chore reserved as an event for the World's Strongest Man competition. You thought he hated traveling? He hated baths more. I still have a small scar on my shoulder from an attempted bath escape to prove it.

By the time he was bathed, the house cleaned, his box, food and scratching post all set up, I was exhausted, he was still ticked, and I was wondering how the next two months were ever going to work. A thought that took on new meaning when I discovered Wilshire was the first animal to whom I was allergic. Wilshire's presence caused me to break out in my first ever case of hives. This event almost meant his staying in a kennel until his former owner returned. Luckily for both Wilshire and I, that never happened. I sucked it up and figured I'll just do my best to give him a good home while I had him. Even luckier, his former owner never returned to claim him. Whether I was ready or not, Wilshire became my cat. What proceeded were 12 wonderful years.

After we got to know each other, best buds we became. A large domestic long hair, black and white in coloring with big green eyes, a bit of a weight problem and awesome Sylvester the Cat style facial tufts, I loved that he was so big, handsome and furry. In short order, I affectionately began calling him Fat, a nickname that has stuck to this day. Wilshire and I got along swimmingly, and in some ways he was like a dog. He would come when I called him. He would sleep on the bed with me. He was always waiting by the door when I got home; he had learned the sound of my truck at the time. He would watch me out the windows. He loved to lay on my chest and rub his face on my chin. I called those giving kisses. And being the big cat he was, he was constantly hungry and would wake me up when he wanted food. And by wake up, I mean he would ram his head into my side until I woke up. I swear I didn't make that part up. He really did that. 

All of that is odd for a typical cat, but Wilshire was never typical, at least with me. He purred like a motor boat and ate like a horse. He would balance his robust frame on the smallest of surfaces. He played greeter to visitors. Well, he did in his younger dog free years only. And he did like dogs. Ok, one dog. When my wife and I moved in together, he was forced to meet his first dog, our former golden retriever Logan. While Wilshire was none too happy to have to now share me, and the bed for that matter, for some reason, Wilshire tolerated that big galoot of a dog. Heck the two of them would lie together on Logan’s dog bed and nap. Our dogs now, well, they don't understand who or what Wilshire is, and they get overly enthusiastic when he's around. I've been worried for the last couple of years they'd knock him over trying to play with him, so we've tried to keep them separated. It hasn't always worked, mostly to the detriment of Wilshire's food or kitchen doors, but we've tried.

But Wilshire was at his best when he would unleash his glare. Everyone loves Grumpy Cat, but Wilshire had that routine down pat years ago and had advanced to "I'll rip your heart out and eat it in front of you" Cat. He had a withering stare he could level at someone he didn't feel worthy, and did often. And that included me from time to time. Well, until I fed him, or picked him up and propped him on my chest. Then the look would soften to "I guess you're ok, for the moment" and the purring would commence.

As is natural with any bond, we've had our ups and downs. The time moving from California when I thought I lost him the day before we were to leave. I had a panic thinking he'd run out the open front door. Turns out he had just crawled under a sink to escape the sound of construction going on downstairs. The nightmarish baths, the occasional health scare, the yelling at me when I would come home because the dog ate his food. I tried to explain I ran out of ideas to keep the dog out of the upstairs, but Wilshire would hear none of it. So I would yell back at him. His response? Stick his nose up in the air and walk away. Even when I yelled, he still won the argument. 

Of course, I cannot neglect his decline over the past 6 months; a decline I was both unable and unwilling to fully notice or process. Even now, looking at him I see two cats. What he has become, and who he once was, which has made this time even more difficult. It’s funny how the mind can be both logical and irrational in the same moment. When I look at him now, tired, haggard, eyes dimmed with age and so frail, I knew his time had come. But my mind still sees the big, boisterous, loud, brash, bright eyed and literally bushy tailed cat who has been with me for the majority of my adult life. I just didn't really want to see how far he had gone from being that big boisterous cat I once knew. And I still don’t.

And finally today, as I watched him go from my life.

Luckily the ups far outweighed the downs. His saucy personality, his proud saunter as he would stride into a room, his love of catnip, his fascination with the fish tank experiment. His rare and exciting attempts at chasing an animal outside. I'll still never forget him plowing through the locked screen door to chase an opossum. I still have no idea what got into him that day or how he managed to squeeze through that door without destroying the door, popping the latch or hurting himself. The precision movements and haste needed to drive him anywhere. I recall vividly the day I moved him from our first place together to a new apartment only two miles away. With him screaming from his carrier in the back seat, I drove as a man on a mission, and that mission was to get there before he pooped himself. In case you are wondering I did succeed. That time.

I loved how he would sit on our luggage before a trip in protest. And then conversely, how he would yell at me for hours, yes hours, upon our return informing me in no uncertain terms that vacation was unacceptable. And then after he had his fill telling me off, he'd be all over me. How if I moved my hand like a gripping claw, he would run over and leap into my lap ready for pets and behind the ear scratches. He loved that signal, and did until the end. His leap had turned into a slow climb, but he was still game for a good scratch behind the ear. 

Even the last week has been wonderful, if bittersweet. He has been amazingly social and affectionate during this time. The last 24 hours have been the best. As we did in our youth, we stayed up late last night listening to music while I sang off key to him. As in the past, he did not approve, but it felt wonderful nonetheless. Afterwards, I set up an air mattress in our spare room, so he could claim his rightful spot on the bed with me, one last time. It was a special evening and one I will cherish until I pass from this mortal coil.

This last week has been as though he knew his message finally got through to me. He finally knew I heard him tell me it’s time and his reward to me has been a flashback to better days. Seemingly since the moment we realized his time had come, in some ways he has rallied to be his old self one last time. Without hyperbole it has been a final blessing I will never forget. 

But these final tales of Wilshire are merely a drop in the bucket that is the story of his life. His adventures have spanned far and wide, and some of his greatest moments have become legendary. I could write for days of all the good times, and one day I may. I know for a long while to come, I will think of them often, and remember my wonderful friend. 

Unfortunately, his passing also reminds me that life marches on, and too often we don't notice how fast time goes by. I was 27 when Wilshire became a part of my life. I lived in California and was single living in a crappy one bedroom apartment. Now I'm 40, living across the country with a wonderful wife, two dogs and our own home. So many changes have happened since first he came through my door. And I know change is part of life. But it amazes me how much has happened in that time. It makes me in some ways nostalgic for those past times, when both of us were younger and less concerned of the worries of the world. I wonder what happened to the time.

But nostalgia tends to have funny ways of corrupting memory. I know I have a wonderful life right now, in most ways far better than it was years ago. And I know there are many more wonderful things possible in my future. I guess what makes me sad right now is that I know my story will continue on, but the chapter that includes my fuzzy little friend has now come to an end.

I've only bonded with one other animal in my life as deeply as I did with Wilshire, and that is with my current dog Tucker. I wonder sometimes if I was able to bond with Tucker because of all I learned bonding with Wilshire. I like to think that's the case. Because, to me, that means his memory and legacy will live on in one more tangible way.

He came into my life needing a home. But I found out I needed him far more than he ever needed me. Having him in my life turned around a great many things for me. And his love and companionship helped me through a few rough patches in my life. There is no way to truly thank him for all he has provided me.

So now I say goodbye to a wonderful friend and companion. Wilshire, you have made the last 12 years far more entertaining and wonderful than you realize, and far more special than I have yet to know. I love you dearly, more than you know and more than I realize. As I promised you years ago, I did my best to give you a good home. I hope by your exacting standards, I did a good job. I look forward to seeing you again one day, back in your robust, purring Fat glory. Until then, we will miss you. And please say hi to Logan for us; we miss him too.

12 years, 3 months and 10 days.

That's a short time.

That's an epic run.