Гвен Купер - Homer - The Ninth Life Of A Blind Wonder Cat

Truth be told, I probably could have made it work with at least one of the cats if I’d really put the time in. But I didn’t have the heart to subject Homer to any more stress after the loss of his two best friends. So I worked with a couple of the no-kill shelters I’d developed relationships with, and eventually we were able to find forever homes for both our fosters. (I still get pictures of them from their happy adoptive humans, and it always makes me smile.)

And that was how, early in 2012, we ended up adopting two little black kittens—litter-mates named Clayton and Fanny. Clayton had a damaged hind leg that we knew from the beginning would most likely have to come off sooner or later. (As it turned out—sooner.)

I’ll tell their story in full later on. For now, it’s enough to know that, even by kitten standards, Clayton and Fanny were ridiculously cheerful and high-spirited. There’s probably nothing more irresistible than a kitten who adores you—and our kittens adored their new big brother immediately, right from the start. They were so playful, so eager to please, so ready to worship Homer in an abject, shameless way, that Homer would have had to be much more hard-hearted than he was to resist their charms. Homer couldn’t see the goofy way Clayton would excitedly bunny-hop beside him on his three good legs, but I think Homer could sense it—and before long he was running, leaping, and chasing after toys, over the furniture and off the walls of our home, with all his old zest.

Ultimately, Homer recovered because he wasn’t made for grief. It wasn’t just that he was too innately happy—he was also too strong. Homer’s strength was a force of nature, his will to live indomitable, as we would soon come to learn. All he needed in order to heal was a reminder that the world was still full of joy—that joy itself had been, and always would be, the very substance of his life.

I, of course, had known this about Homer all along. I’d written an entire book about it.

Playing the role of big brother was a new adventure for Homer. And new adventures were what Homer had always lived for.

Strong Like Bull

There is a time for many words, and

there is also a time for sleep.

-HOMER, The Odyssey

IT WAS A COLD, GRAY AFTERNOON IN EARLY DECEMBER, and I was pulling our freshly cleaned winter bedding from the laundry basket, planning to swap it for the lighter sheets and blanket currently dressing our bed. Homer and the kittens (who had, by now, grown into full-fledged cats) were sitting in a semi-circle on the floor at the foot of the bed. “Helping” me change the linens was always a popular activity among our three. Homer would perform the vital job of attacking each corner of the bed as the fitted sheet went over it. Fanny pitched in by diving under the top sheet and creating a lump I couldn’t work around until I’d pushed her onto the floor. And Clayton, not as good a jumper as the other two, would dig in his front claws and haul himself up onto the bed—dragging blanket and sheets halfway to the floor—and hop around after the other two until I said, in an exasperated voice, “That’s enough! ” at which point he would flop down and look at me with deep reproach for having spoiled the game.

It was unquestionably a frustrating way to make the bed, but I couldn’t help but smile now as I saw Homer’s face turned up to mine in anticipation of one of our oldest and most cherished rituals. Homer was fifteen years old, and more apt than he’d used to be to choose naps over play. Where once he’d been the “poster kitty” for special-needs animals, he was now more of an elder statesman. His one gray whisker had become six, and the ebony sheen of his head was flecked with gray as well. Fanny and Clayton had helped him recover the joie de vivre he’d lost after Scarlett’s passing a year earlier. Still, I was bringing out the heavier blankets sooner than I normally would—usually I’d wait for the first snow—because I thought Homer might appreciate the additional warmth and softness a bit earlier this year.

I’d just gotten the old sheets off and dumped the new fitted sheet onto the middle of the bed, when I noticed that Homer, resting on his haunches, wobbled a bit before falling over to one side. He quickly righted himself, but fell over to the side again. Then he tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t support him. He went down in a small heap and curled all four paws beneath his body.

At first I wasn’t even sure that I’d seen what I thought I saw. Maybe Homer was just lying down, and I had only imagined that something seemed “off.” But then I saw how Homer struggled to hold his head up, like a kitten fighting to stay awake while falling asleep on his feet, and I knew that something was very wrong.

“Laurence!” In two long strides I was in the hallway and buried halfway to my chest in the hall closet as I struggled to free one of the cat carriers from its storage place. Clayton and Fanny had followed eagerly ( She opened the closet! Closets are awesome! ) and I shooed them away impatiently. “ Laurence! ” I called again, and found that Laurence had already abandoned his home office next to our bedroom and was standing beside me.

“What happened?” he asked.

“There’s something wrong with Homer. He just…fell over.” I spoke calmly, not wanting to alarm Homer, who was always so attuned to the sound of my voice. “We have to get him to the animal hospital.”

Laurence regarded me for a fraction of a second. It was only when I saw his face tighten with concern that I knew what my own looked like, despite the forced evenness of my tone. “Let’s go,” was all he said, and went to round up keys, coats, and cell phones.

Getting Homer into his carrier was usually an onerous task. Once upon a time, a trip in the carrier had meant a move to a new home and new territories for Homer to explore. But we’d lived here with Laurence for just over seven years now—nearly half of Homer’s life. These days, the carrier meant only one thing: the vet. There was nothing in the world Homer loathed and feared as much as the vet’s office. He’d never exactly been a good patient, but the problem had gotten exponentially worse over the years. The last time we’d gone, in January, I’d had to cradle Homer in my arms in order for the vet to get close enough to draw a blood sample. When the needle went in, Homer had panicked and bitten my hand so hard that I’d had to go the emergency room later for a tetanus shot. He’d seemed immediately remorseful upon hearing my yelp of pain, struggling to get his front paws onto my shoulder so he could nuzzle my neck, the way he had that very first day we’d met, all those years ago. When the vet had tried to approach him again, he’d hissed at her wildly over my shoulder, like a thing possessed. Leave me alone! he seemed to say. Look what you made me do to my human!

We hadn’t been back since.

Homer didn’t struggle at all now. He was still breathing, and he appeared to be awake. But whether he was on the floor or in his carrier seemed to be a matter of equal indifference to him.

Seeing his utter lack of resistance made the knots in my stomach tighten. I held him for a moment, pressing my cheek to the top of his head before gently lowering him in. “You’re going to be fine,” I assured him in a soft voice. “You’ll be just fine.”

It was the lunch hour—always a difficult time to catch a cab in front of our Midtown apartment—so Laurence walked a couple of blocks up while I huddled Homer in his carrier as close under my coat as I could, trying to keep him warm. With my cell phone cradled between my shoulder and my ear, I let the receptionist at the vet’s office know that Homer and I were on our way in with an emergency. As I hung up, I saw the blessed sight of Laurence in the back of a cab pulling up to us.