Гвен Купер - Homer And The Holiday Miracle

And yet, none of the things I waited for took place. Not one—except, if I’m being strictly truthful, the yellow hue in Homer’s ears did seem to deepen, just a little. Maybe. If you were looking closely.

If anything, Homer seemed positively rejuvenated in those first few days after his diagnosis. But that wasn’t possible, I told myself sternly. The evidence of my own two eyes was the last thing I should be putting any trust in; I was only seeing what I wanted to see. The numbers were the numbers. They were facts—they were certainties . When the vet had said that Homer’s numbers were “incompatible with life,” I’d understood exactly what she’d meant: On paper, Homer was already gone. The most surprising thing about all the ruckus he’d caused at the hospital was that, with numbers like his, Homer should have been too weak even to twitch his ears—much less fend off three professional animal handlers who had at least a hundred and twenty pounds on him apiece.

Still, I couldn’t help noticing what looked like an extra swagger in Homer’s sleek panther prowl, one that hadn’t been there before we’d gone to the vet’s office. And the kittens, far from being unhappy, seemed even more besotted with Homer than usual, an extra gleam of adoration—not anxiety—shining in their wide eyes. Perhaps his victory over the hapless crew at the animal hospital (that day had felt far from “victorious” to me, but undoubtedly Homer saw things much differently) had roused Homer’s fighting spirit, calling a retired, grizzled warrior back into the fray. I imagined him telling the story to Clayton and Fanny by the glow of a hallway nightlight, their eyes agog as Homer wove his yarn of fighting three giants into submission—all at the same time! The thing is, I pictured him saying with a cool, casual flick of a single gleaming claw, you have to show these people who’s boss.

It was just before sundown on the first night of Hanukkah, four days after our emergency room visit, when the vet called to see how Homer was doing. I was in the kitchen, digging through our hopelessly cluttered “junk” drawer for menorah candles, while keeping my eyes peeled for any fuzzy interlopers who might make an attempt on the preparations for our holiday meal.

“You may have noticed a sharp decrease in Homer’s appetite,” the vet said, after we’d exchanged greetings. “The conundrum with cats who have liver problems is that it’s super important for them to keep eating, but it’s usually a struggle to get any food into them. I can prescribe an appetite stimulant, if you think that might help.”

Just that afternoon, Homer had polished off an entire roasted chicken breast all by himself. Laurence had made it, intending it for his own lunch. But Homer pawed so pleadingly at Laurence’s leg upon smelling the freshly cooked meat that Laurence wasn’t able to resist giving him a few little bites. Neither of us was very good at saying no to anything Homer wanted at that point, and so the little bites turned into bigger chunks, and the number of bigger chunks kept growing, until Homer had wolfed the whole thing down to the bone.

Laurence was forced to content himself with the vegetables he’d prepared as a side, sighing a bit wistfully as he watched Homer daintily clean his face and whiskers once the chicken was gone.

That full chicken breast had been eaten just after Homer’s usual lunchtime repast of canned cat food—his bowl was shining, he’d licked it so clean—along with an entire tin of sardines we’d gotten as a backup in case Homer’s everyday food hadn’t appealed to him. And then there was that bowlful of the Kitten Chow I’d bought as a tempting last resort (Kitten Chow being the only food that had reliably made Homer’s older sisters happy in their own final days) but ended up throwing in as a bonus “dessert” once it was clear that Homer was still hungry even after the chicken, canned food, and sardines had been dispatched.

All in, five-pound Homer had put away roughly the same quantity of food over the span of ninety minutes that I (more than twenty-five times Homer’s weight, it should be noted) typically consumed over the course of an entire Thanksgiving Day.

“His appetite’s been pretty good,” I told the vet. “If anything, he’s been eating more enthusiastically than usual.”

“That’s great!” There was a note of surprise in her voice, but she quickly moved on to the next concern. “We should also talk about the best way to manage Homer’s discomfort.” By discomfort I knew she meant pain. “With his numbers, I’d expect to see him experiencing some fairly extreme discomfort. We can talk about a few medications that could make his end-of-life care less stressful for you both.”

The numbers, the numbers . . . I’d managed to forget those wretched numbers for all of five minutes, but here they were again—razorsharp in their cold, ironclad inevitability. I was living in a fool’s paradise, preparing to light holiday candles and happily noting things like Homer’s “swagger” and healthy appetite. As if those kinds of intangibles mattered at all in the face of the stern reality of THE NUMBERS.

“We should try to keep Homer as comfortable as possible,” the vet added.

At that moment, Homer streaked past with Clayton’s belled collar dangling from his mouth, filling the room with the merry jingle-jangle of sleigh bells as he triumphantly tossed his head and the collar along with it. The kittens’ ringing collars had originally been intended as an early-warning system, to give Homer a heads-up when a kitten was approaching. But anything with bells attached was, as far as Homer was concerned, a fascinating cat toy and therefore his own special property. Accordingly, he’d pinned poor Clayton down in the other room and wrested the breakaway collar from around Clayton’s neck. And Clayton—who hated wearing the darn thing, but was perversely outraged at having it stolen—bunny-hopped after Homer as fast as his three legs would carry him, frantically (and futilely) trying to snatch it back.

“I mean . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to sound like someone in complete denial of medical realities, but also unsure how to explain the scene in front of me, in any convincing fashion, to a doctor whose voice rang with genuine concern for a cat she clearly believed was in his final throes.

“Homer doesn’t seem un comfortable,” I finally concluded.

Having taken a few victory laps up and down the hallway, Homer bounded back into the living room and—in two swift leaps as graceful and sure-footed as a gazelle’s—sprang from the floor to the dining table, and from the table to the kitchen counter next to me, before dropping the collar next to my hand. Then he jumped back down to the floor to sit in front of me, ears up at full attention. Throw it! his entire posture begged.

Clayton, panting slightly from his fruitless attempt at keeping up with Homer, entered a few steps behind. Indignation burned in the golden eyes he fixed on my own. Are you just gonna let him rob me like that?!

“Well, be sure to keep a close eye on him, and call if you see any changes,” the vet said. “With cats, especially, the signs of discomfort can be very subtle.”

I moved toward the kitchen entrance that faced the hallway and tossed the collar high in the air. It landed at the far end of the hall, and Homer was after it like a shot.

“I absolutely will,” I assured her. “And thank you so much for calling. Truly.”

Clayton continued to stare at me accusingly as I hung up the phone. “Let Homer have it,” I bent down to tell him as I stroked his back. “He’s very, very sick.”