Andy

The Baldwin County Animal Shelter was a tiny cinder block structure located on a remote county road close to the landfill. It was an out of the way place that I had never had the occasion to visit. So, on that bright spring morning, as I finished an errand to the landfill, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity.
As I pulled my old Ford truck through the gates, I reminded myself that I was just there to look. I was not prepared to adopt any animals. I had a very good dog at home as well as a cat. A cat who had just recently showed up- a cat who was not loving or cuddly- a cat who was prone to getting on the counter and eating half a loaf of bread- but a cat for whom I had accepted the responsibility, none the less. So, with firm resolve, I got out with the idea of looking, just looking.
I stopped at the concrete outdoor runs filled with a montage of mutts, all colors, shapes and sizes, all barking and carrying on. The puppies wriggled and squirmed as I reached my hands through the chain link fence. They were cute, but, I remembered Sidney- the best dog. She was happy being an only dog. I reminded myself I was just looking.
Inside the building, there were the expected smells- urine, feces, flea dip, and food. The attendant walked me through the small office to the next small room. It was equipped with a bathtub, washer and dryer, and in one corner, 4 steel cages, stacked two high. In these cages were kittens, except for the top left cage which was occupied by a single, orange tabby cat. I started playing with a cage of kittens, 5 or 6 of them, 6 or 8 weeks old. I noticed the tabby cat, who was laying in his litter box, looking disheveled with his back to the door, glance indifferently over his shoulder at me.
I continued to interact with the kittens, one cage after another. The orange cat was watching me. I ignored him. Pretty soon, he got up and came to the front of the cage. I was enjoying the cute little kittens, my resolve fading. I was seriously thinking of taking one home. The orange tabby cat started talking to me. “Meoow,” he said. As minutes passed, he became more intent on making me notice him. He started reaching his orange arms through the bars to me, the “meows” turning to loud, slobbery purrs mixed with near wailing cries. He rubbed his head against the bars throwing himself into comic somersaults, still reaching for me. He had decided that I was the one. His reserved indifference had changed to shameless pleading. I was hooked. He had won me over.
In the mean time, the young woman attendant had stepped back into the room, hearing the commotion. She marveled at the cat’s behavior stating that he hadn’t warmed up to anyone, not even staff. She told me he was a sad case of owners moving and not able or willing to fit him into their plans. Numerous people had come and gone in the six days he had been there, many cute kittens had been adopted. Nobody was much interested in a seemingly unfriendly, plain orange, full grown cat- especially surrounded by all those frisky, playful kittens of every color. Tomorrow was the orange tabby cat’s last day. The shelter was too small and crowded to house animals more than seven days.
Thus was the beginning of my time with Andy. As months passed, and spring gave way to summer, our routine became solid. When I came home, he was waiting for me - always. I’d throw him over my shoulder and we’d walk to the mailbox. He would sit up on top of the square, metal structure as I used my key and retrieved my mail. We would play a little, him stalking my finger along the edge of the box, and then he would get back on my shoulder for the ride to the house.
Andy had the gratitude of a being that had been rescued from the brink of death. He never seemed to take for granted a single day. As if he understand his good fortune, he made a point of displaying his appreciation to me constantly. He loved sitting with me, loved being with me where ever I was. If I walked, he walked with me. If I took a nap, he curled up next to me. His generous show of affection for me made my attachment to him grow quickly.
As it turned out, his demonstrative display at the animal shelter was completely out of character for him. He was a very dignified and reserved feline who was not taken in by friendly visitors and had attached himself to me exclusively. He prided himself on the immaculate condition of his coat, and although he was quick to purr, he never slobbered like he had that first day. He was a true gentleman cat. Unlike the other cat that lived with us, he never gave me cause for distress, never ate my bread, never sharpened his claws on the couch behind my head. Andy fit into my home and life as if he had always been there. He loved my dog, Sidney, and she accepted him immediately.
Then, the days began to shorten as fall approached. One day I noticed that Andy had some sores on his gums. I watched him closely. He was eating good, had his usual energy, nothing wrong except those ulcerations in his mouth. After a few days, with no improvement, I took him in to the vet. He was poked and prodded and blood was drawn. I took him home and waited. Andy was unconcerned about the test results. He was still just content to live each day, to be close to me, to sit in a sunny window sill.
For the next few days, I worried and anxiously awaited the call from the vet. And then the call came. The test result had come back. It was positive for feline leukemia. My heart sank. The lump in my throat made it difficult to continue the conversation with the doctor. I listened as he explained the disease. He told me it was a lot like AIDS in humans, an auto-immune disorder. He said there was no cure, that it was highly contagious and that Andy would become sicker and sicker until he would most likely die from some opportunistic infection.
I asked, through tears, if there wasn’t something we could do. Couldn’t he just live in the house for the rest of his life? Couldn’t we keep him on antibiotics and treat whatever came up? Couldn’t I just hang up and pretend I had never spoken to you? I thought.
The doctor, a slightly condescending man who spoke to everyone as if they were three years old, explained to me that there was really only one humane choice, only one responsible option: he would have to be euthanized, put to sleep--- without delay, Andy would have to die.
I hung up the phone, stinging tears blurring my vision of the loyal cat sleeping on the couch, oblivious of the weighty decision this 21 year old was being forced to make on his behalf.
For the next three days, I cried. I cried as I worked, I cried as I drove. I cried in my sleep and I cried in the morning before my conscious mind remembered what I was crying about. During that time, Andy stayed near me. I cried at his innocence and trust.
On the third day, Dr. Schindler called to implore me that time was of the essence. There was, after all, the other cat in the house to consider, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for a neighborhood epidemic. I agreed, reluctantly, to bring Andy into the office the next morning.
That evening, as the inevitable drew closer, I sobbed and cried, nearly hysterically while Andy sat on my lap. I begged my precious kitty to run! “Flee from me! How can you continue to trust me when I have to let them kill you? How can you still love me when I must betray you?” I said through sobs.
In the midst of my breakdown, Andy sat calmly on my lap. He listened intently to everything I said, then, looking at me squarely, as only a cat can, with orange, unblinking eyes, he raised an orange paw and pressed it to my lips. It was as if he had heard enough. No matter what tomorrow would bring, he loved me today. He didn’t want to waste the time we had left in sorrow. We spent that last night together, him purring in my arms, as I cried myself to sleep.1

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Another lifetime has come and gone since the heartbeat that Andy spent with me so long ago, but the indelible impression he left has remained: the mark of one plain orange tabby cat who loved me completely and unconditionally.
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