Ginger Beef: A Recipe for the Youth in Asia.

There is a social contract between you and your cat that begins when you pick him out of all the other cats to come live with you.

Me: "Cat - I will bring you into my house and you will provide me an unending supply of love and affection. In return I will feed you and buy you costly medicine and veterinary services should you require them".

Cat: "Human, I will give you an unending supply of love and affection. You will clean my poop box. I also will barf on your floor in a place you will probably step - while wearing socks. I do not wear socks so I do not understand, but I am led to believe it is quite revolting to your kind. And your friends will be allergic to me, and I will lay on your clean laundry covering it with my hair, because from this point what is yours is mine to sleep on. Also I will chew on valuable items - possibly destroying them. Finally, you'll never be able to read a book or use your computer without my presence being felt."

Me: "But it is an unending supply of love and affection?"

Cat: "Yes, of course."

Me:  "Deal."

"My poop box, it requires your attention human."

And this is the deal we strike, and that when he becomes old, sick, or injured you will take him to the vet and put him to sleep. That's the fine print in the contract. You maybe don't think of that fine print when you pick out that little ball of fur, but it's part of the deal whether you know it or not. Or maybe you're a morbid schmuck like me, and that totally crosses your mind when you pick out your new pet.

I have had lots of pets, and with the exception of a couple who befell some tragedy that took them before we got to the vet, there have been many such trips to the vet. Each one sucking just as hard as the last one. Each one affording you time to remember the last little balls of fur that were in your life, and you had to perform this service for. This week we had to take our sweet fat old cat to the vet to say the final goodbye.

He wasn't fat any more. That was the problem. It's hard to say when it started. He was always kind of a loaf-y and solitary cat, but over the last month when I picked him up his beefy loaf didn't feel so heavy. He was sneezing so we chalked it up to he must have a cold and can't taste the cat food so has lost his appetite. So we switched to wet food. That perked him up for a bit, so we deluded ourselves that he just needed the change in diet. Then last week he started sleeping in the back of the closet, or behind doors, or under the bed. Away and in the dark, and all the while getting thinner and thinner. We knew what this behavior was, but neither of us wanted to admit it. He didn't seem in pain, but clearly was not himself.

The older your pet gets the more you think about what you'll do in their last days. In our case Beef hated the vet. He will cut a snitch. And he did -- literally....three different times. When we moved and switched to a new vet and tried to get drugs to sedate him so we could take him to the vet, but the vet said - "Oh no, I can handle cats. I can't possibly prescribe something without seeing the cat first." Ok vet, your arm funeral. Beef cut that snitch real hard. Knowing his hatred and fear of the vet I secretly hoped we'd just find him curled in his kitty bed at peace, not having to subject him to that place he hated so much.

I also selfishly hoped I could get out of it. I find myself the biggest hypocrite in this. I've always said you can't just abandon your pet in their final moments. You have to be there, loving them to the last, telling them it would be ok; calming their fear. But oh man did I want to run. I told myself, technically he's Gabe's cat. I don't have to go. I am too busy at work. Gabe probably wants it to just be the two of them. When we decided on Sunday that Monday was D-Day, I still had it in my head I wouldn't have to go to this one, Gabe would take Beef while I went to work, but then he said, "I need a favor - I can't do this alone, you have to come with me."

Shit.

You see when you get married there is a social contract. And you may not think of it the day you say "I do", because it's not in the official vows, but in the fine print it says, some day you will have to come with me to put my beloved pet to sleep. Dammit

The thing was, he was Gabe's cat, and you might think with marriage you adopt your spouse's pets as your own, but in Beef's case, I was there from when he was a tiny ball of fur. You see I'd just met this guy online, and he said, you should come hang out. So I did. And he had this tiny ball of orange fur who and just recently moved in with him. And when he told me he was going to get him de-clawed I thought, 'I judge him. That is a horrible thing to do'. But then I met that demon cat and my arms became a wasteland of red angry scratches. When Gabe worked overnights I would be in his apartment by myself and hear terror inducing chittering. It would be behind me to my left, and when I would turn to look, the chittering would suddenly be coming from in front of me and to the right. He was stalking me. And then it would be quiet. Almost too quiet. And then a tiny orange ball of fur would be latched to my throat before I knew what hit me. It was then I changed my stance on de-clawing cats. Some of them need it.

I don't think he ever forgot that. He would look me in the eyes and sharpen his mittens on hard surfaces as if to say, "You're lucky I only have mittens - or there would be blood."

So while he was Gabe's kitten, he was at the start of our relationship. We'd never known each other without a Beef cat in our lives. I didn't need to adopt Beef formally, we'd always been a part of each others lives because we were both in love with the same man. I don't for a second doubt that he resented me at first for ruining their bachelor paradise, but eventually we became besties. Mostly because I knew what it was like to be a ginger who was also prone to tangled long hair. We bonded over hairbrushes.

He did mellow in his old age, and was a curmudgeonly lovey cat. He wasn't a fan of strangers, but was always snuggling with us. We always joked that he was always trying to kill us. Running at our ankles when we were at the top of the stairs, or pressing his face and paws so hard over your mouth and nose as if he was trying to love you to death. His favorite place to rest was on your face blocking off all airways, and if you tried to talk he'd press his paws into your mouth as if to say, "Shh...shh...just sleep."

I didn't think I would cry. I've always said, his constant fur drove me bonkers, and he was technically Gabe's cat. And he'd had a good long run. This is just a part of the pet ownership contract. I was determined this was the right choice and I wasn't going to cry. This is what needed to be done, and wasn't sad at all. It was a mercy. I called my mom to see if there were any openings in the family pet cemetery, and if they'd be home on Monday. I told her we were taking Beef to the vet, and she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." And then I lost it. Blubbering pile of mush. I think it just took that long before it finally hit me what we were making plans for. I have no idea why I thought I wouldn't cry. What I have learned from all this is that death makes me a total hypocrite.

So that Sunday we went outside and sat under the tree and sniffed the air. His favorite thing to do. The locks of hair behind his ears we lovingly called his Einstein tufts, billowing in the breeze. We've always said his favorite hobby is "billowing". We locked the other animals out of the bedroom and just cuddled with him in bed between the two of us, and brushed his fur while he rattled quietly and rubbed his head on us.

That morning we had to go to work. We each took a half day. I didn't want to think about what lay ahead of us that afternoon, so I poured myself into my work. I don't think I've worked that focused in a long time. I had all my e-mails, reports and tickets done by 9:30, I even pulled a start report for two of our campuses and had that done by 10:30.

New motivational technique

I was making tremendous time. And while it went quickly it felt like it was dragging. I still just wanted to run away.We had some time before our appointment so we went outside one more time to listen to the birds. I even got him a thick plastic bag to chew on. His favorite. And even though he was slow and very lethargic about it he still chewed the crap out of that bag. Atta'boy.

I took him to the couch to snuggle him one last time, but he didn't want any of it. He got down and just went into Gabe's bathroom to sleep in the shower. It was time. It was beyond time.

We chose to forego the dreaded cat carrier, which we had recently dubbed the "Murder Bucket" because we knew what it's purpose would soon be - because if there is one thing about our little family it is that if it is even remotely difficult to deal with, taboo, or impolite we will not take it seriously. at. all.

In the final car ride we had the windows open. I drove, and Gabe held Beef in his lap. His long ginger locks flowing in the wind. This was unlike any other car ride we had taken with him. He was calm, he didn't yowl. He looked out the windows sedately and with what I can only characterize as stoicism. Meanwhile I sobbed quietly the whole way there.

We distracted ourselves by telling him what kitty heaven would be like. Nothing but giant books that people were trying to read, but failing to do so.

"Sorry if my need for attention is getting the way of your 'reading'."

We've always joked, having all male cats, that they were institutionally gay for each other. And so explained to Beef that he was going to see his former lover Ole...on the rainbow bridge, and then burst out laughing between our tears. We also considered the merits of a Viking funeral for him out on my parents lake, but that we were both probably terrible shots and would shout expletives while his funeral barge floated out of reach of our flaming arrows, and we didn't want a coyote to get him. Please see the note above about how we deal with serious issues.

Rainbow Bridge 4 Lyfe

I'll spare the details of the final moments. Suffice it to say he was very calm, he didn't cut anyone, and he was very peaceful. The staff at the vet were all fantastic. Very kind, and understanding. I will stand by my belief that you have to be there to say goodbye. For the final ear rubs and chin scratches. No matter how much you want to run, how badly it hurts your heart, and however much you don't want to say goodbye, it's what you have to do. It's what they deserve. It's part of the contract.

So good night my sweet meat. And may a flight of mice angels sing thee to thy rest.

Roscoe Pico Train Holmes
a.k.a Beef