Starcat Forever

I will miss you, my beautiful feline friend.

I was using an empty Newport box as a wallet on Christmas Eve 2011, if that tells you anything about where my life was.

I was doing that famous thing grizzled alcoholics do, which was drinking at the legendary O.K. Café in Marion with a Marionaire we call “Johnny Sheen.”

We were outside on the patio, smoking our beloved Newports, when an elegant, longhaired white cat appeared from under the grill and meowed her demands that we feed her immediately. The best I could do was some beef from my nachos, which I brought to her and she devoured immediately.

“More,” she demanded with her meows when she demolished our scraps. It was cold outside and there was still beer to drink, so I gave her my regrets before shuffling back inside.

Once inside, the bartender told us that the cat had been milling around their dumpster for the last two weeks and subsisting on scraps. I told Sheen that if it was out there when we left, I was taking her home.

The cat wasn’t outside. And when I had all but given up the hope, she leaped out of the dumpster and onto its ledge like Gandalf in that famous Lord of the Rings scene where he saves the Battle at Helms Deep for the good guys.

We went to Wal-Mart and got wet food. Needless to say, my mom was not enamored of the idea of housing a stray cat in her house, albeit for one night. She didn’t disown me, however, and I slept with Starcat on the tile floor of the basement because I didn’t want her to be scared and alone. This is the first picture I ever took of her shortly after I christened her Starcat:

I took Starcat back to Columbus, where in retrospect it was probably fucked up that I came back from Christmas break and told my three other roommates, “Congratulations, you live with a cat now!”

About a week later, a friend came to visit me on 14th Avenue. She walked in, took one look at Starcat and said, “You know that cat is like, pregnant as hell, right?”

No! I did not know that. I just figured she was enjoying the benefits of eating regularly scheduled-meals that didn’t come from the bottom of a bar’s dumpster.

Upon feeling her bulbous stomach, I arrived at the scientific conclusion that I had brought a pregnant cat into my life and would be responsible for raising and adopting out her kittens.

I watched hours of YouTube advice on delivering kittens. I made a little nesting area in the basement for when the time came. Did any of this matter to Starcat? No. She began mewling and pawing at the door in an insane way. It got to the point where I was nearly on the verge of a psychotic breaking point, and it was my cat!

I decided that if she wanted to go outside, pregnant, in the middle of the winter in a foreign land, then that was her personal decision and I should respect it. So, I let her out the front door not knowing if I would ever see her again. She returned three days later, pawing at the door in similar fashion and noticeably lighter around the stomach. The good news, I learned later, was that the kittens would have had a minimal chance of survival in the first place considering she had subsisted on beer-soaked dumpster food throughout a majority of her pregnancy.

She has been by my side for almost 10 years, living at seven residences, including that month I spent on my best friend’s couch after my roommate gambled away our rent money on a poker table. She has been a constant appearance in my writing, artwork and was even featured in the documentary about my failed bid for the Statehouse.

Whenever dark times arrived in my life and that old nemesis of suicide ideation started to work its evil magic on my inner monologue, I always came back off the cliff by realizing that nobody would love and care for Starcat like I could. And no matter what was going on in my life, I couldn’t be that bad of a person if I had a warm bed and Starcat purring against my chest as we both fell asleep.

I knew Starcat couldn’t live forever, but I had always hoped to get her to Christmas Eve 2021, where we could celebrate ten years together and I could post a picture of her wearing a little birthday hat that garnered 150 likes on Instagram.

We didn’t get there. Dr. Harris of the Annehurst Veterinary Hospital diagnosed her with a fancy word for cancer last month. He prescribed enough steroids to get her to that fabled anniversary but warned if she stopped eating, “she had made her decision.”

Starcat made her decision after the Patriots rolled and smoked the Browns like a cigar on Sunday. She dined on my good friend Big Butter’s chicken and seafood pasta afterwards, and said, “That’s my final meal.”

On Monday, her condition deteriorated to the point that I felt compelled to call Annehurst to schedule what needed to be done. “Is this something you want to do today?” the nice lady on the phone asked. “Oh god, no,” I said through the tears I told myself I wouldn’t produce before I picked up the phone. “I can’t send her out on a Browns loss.”

That was a psychotic thought. Starcat did not give one iota of a fuck about the Browns. But I didn’t think I was ready to take her down the Green Mile. We scheduled for next Wednesday. I would take her Westerville and then go to Marion to drink 500 beers in her honor.

Hours later, I called back. Was Thursday at 4 p.m. still open? Yes, it was. Let’s do that, I said. Sorry for all the trouble.

Yesterday I awoke thinking I had two more days with Starcat. I went out to lunch with Irish Pete, the big brother I never had, and came back feeling good about life like I always do after spending time with him.

Unfortunately, Starcat’s health had dropped even more. She was acting erratic, sloshing about in the water bowl. She has always hated water. The pit in my stomach informed me that the dreaded time had come.

Dr. Harris was in surgery, but when he got out, he called me back. “Collect your thoughts and come see me when you want,” he said. I told him I would see him in 30 minutes.

And so I did. I had all these grand plans for Starcat’s last hours. Relaxing in our backyard. Feeding her as many Snickers ice cream bars as she could eat. But all those plans collapsed on themselves when I saw my majestic cat cutting her nose while trying to handle the copious amounts of snot pouring out of her mouth due to the cancerous polyp in her gums.

Dr. Harris said that 50% of his customers want to be in the room when it happens, while 50% don’t. I couldn’t imagine not being in the room when Starcat returned to her celestial tribe. I made sure to bring her favorite sherpa blanket to wrap her like a burrito for her final moments.

The euthanasia process involves three shots, delivered through a catheter. The first is a painkiller. The second is one that takes their sense of hearing and sight. The third is the knockout blow.

Dr. Harris asked if I wanted to spend any time with her after the painkiller shot. No, I said. I had cried enough tears and said my last words to her on the 20 minute drive to Westerville. I was ready to end her suffering.

I was the last thing Starcat saw before she returned to the galaxy from which she came.

“Take care of yourself,” her eyes seemed to say before Dr. Harris declared her departed. It was then I realized Starcat did not leave this world until I was surrounded by a loving girlfriend and two other cats. She knew she had left me in the best possible hands.

I can only hope I am half as elegant and fierce as the Starcat when the Grim Reaper comes for my soul. And even if I fail, I will smile in the face of death because I know my eternal companion will be waiting for me in the next life.

Forever Starcat, and Starcat forever. There will never be another cat like her.

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