In memory

Eight years with Houdini, a first-class cat

The Heavener house is reeling from tragedy. Our senior cat, Houdini ('… that's MISTER Cat and don't you ever forget …'), was called by our Creator on Saturday, November 24, 2002. There are mice to be caught in Heaven, and apparently his work here was done.

Before he left us, he laid one final furry gray present on the doorstep … and then came inside to receive his well-earned accolades. "Good boy, Houdini. Good job, Mister Cat! Thank you for the mouse, big guy."

Houdini was diabetic. Newly diabetic. We took him to the animal hospital on November 8 deep in ketoacidotic crisis. They kept him on an insulin drip for seven days and then, when he seemed better, released him to our care.

At first he responded well. Hated having his antibiotic pill pushed down his throat (it took two pairs of human hands), but the twice-a-day insulin shots didn't faze him at all.

He didn't even seem to mind the enforced change of diet—although getting only ½-cup twice a day (instead of an always-full bowl) sorta ticked him off. Our other cat, miss Diamond, stopped eating her food and then got her nose out-of-joint when she wasn't welcomed to Houdini's bowl.

He even turned pink again. That's right, pink. Though he was mostly gray and black tiger-striped, he had a lot of white (boots, chest and stomach, tip of his tail, under his chin, and neck), and the white was fringed with tan. When he was very happy with life, or pleased with how well his humans were responding, the tan assumed a pinkish tinge—he could turn it on or off in a moment.

Troy was excited about his return to health. Houdini was, literally, his best friend. They slept together, came and went together, and were as inseparable as any two could be. Troy scooped him up every night at bedtime. When Troy was sick, or lonely, or troubled, he'd lay on the family room sofa and we could guarantee the cat would be snuggled warmly behind his knees. When it was Houdini who needed sanctuary, he'd yowl outside Troy's room until someone opened Troy's door.

		Houdini-isms We called him "the cat who speaks English—with a feline accent." He had an unnerving way of sounding as though he'd articulated something appropriate to the situation. Among the things we all attest to hearing him speak in plain English: Thank you — two short, distinct, polite syllables It's wet — after racing across the rain-swept lawn to beat us to the door I want out — facing the sliding glass door, looking over a shoulder It's empty — he hated seeing the bottom of the bowl Back off, Jack — when he occasionally wanted to be left alone Pet me! Now! — after doing the famous Houdini somersault IN! Now! — stated as a fact, not an opinion. "… I want in, now, and no questions about it …"

But last Tuesday (11/20), we noticed Houdini was not eating. Wednesday night, he struggled but didn't actively fight having food pushed down his throat. And he started drinking massive quantities of water again.

And Wednesday, he brought home that last mouse. Couldn't miss the gift—or the gesture. Almost, it seems, as though knowing it would be his last, he laid it gently on its side right in the middle of the porch.

We took him back to the vet on Friday (a national holiday intervened). They were dismayed. Diabetic cats do not take sudden downturns; once on insulin, they almost always respond and get better. Would we give permission to run more tests on Monday—to see what they might have missed? Of course.

Saturday, when we came to visit, it was obvious. I could see Houdini breathing as though life was a struggle ('… I wanna purr for you folks but it's just not in me, y'unnerstand …'). The white "dueling scar" spot on his left cheek was way too prominent—it's always been a bellwether of his health.

The vet gave Terri a big hug. Troy, young, strong, 21-year-old Troy … staggered. Houdini's his cat, was born in our family room and was Troy's pick from the first moment.

We called him Houdini because, though he was the smallest of the four kittens, he was the first out of the cardboard box they slept in, and we could never keep him in it. None of the others were as adventurous.

The vet laid Houdini on the examination table (he hated being on the vet's table, was always careful not to be caught on tables and counters at home, so he wouldn't be scolded). But this time he didn't even move.

There was really only one decision to be made. Troy nodded his assent, cradling the cat closely to his chest, tears uncharacteristically filling his eyes. Hannah concurred and turned quickly away to hide her grief. Terri and I gave the go-ahead, hating ourselves but knowing it was inevitable anyway.

From the day he was born—March 5, 1992 (after an effortless pregnancy and a quick birth)—we expected Houdini to see Troy become independent. We expected to hear: "Mom, they won't let me have pets in my new apartment. Can you keep him for awhile? I promise I'll visit every day."

The kids and Terri left the vet's. Don't blame them at all … seeing him struggle just to breathe, knowing the end was happening as they drove home, knowing they'll never hear his distinct, peculiar, low, jazzy (but oh so loud in the middle of the night) voice again, knowing he'll never come shooting over from the neighbors' yards to meet us on the porch demanding: "… In! Now! …".

I held his head. Brushed his fur. Stroked his face and ears. He smiled one last time. Yes, he certainly knew how to smile. It was his secret weapon—he had us wrapped around his little fingers when he used that sometimes innocent, sometimes sincere, sometimes mischievous, always megawatt smile on us.

So, the Heaveners are in mourning. We know he was "just a cat." We know cats' lives are short and we should have been prepared. We know better than get too emotional about this, promised ourselves we wouldn't. Promised not to cry.

But Houdini was unique. He had many endearing little traits—things we'll miss—things we'll catch ourselves waiting for, things that will tilt our world completely out of kilter for awhile. Forgive our tears, please.

His food dish sits where it always has, waiting for the ritual to begin. "… Meow-yeow-oh …" he'd say—"… I'm hungry …" Then he'd wait, impatiently, for the nearest, or the least busy, or sometimes the one he'd pre-selected, to kneel beside him. He seemed incapable of eating until we'd scratched his chin, stroked his nose, rubbed the fur on his shoulder backwards, brushed him thoroughly above his hindquarters, and tugged his tail a couple different directions. Then he'd settle on his haunches, scoop up a bite, chew twice or thrice— and wait for us to repeat the entire ritual.

Houdini—MISTER cat—full voting member of the Heavener family. Oh, Lord, show him where those mice are and be sure you're there for him at the eternal food dish.

Oh … and God … he'll wait at the end of the driveway for you to come home from your day's work at the celestial factory. When your wheels hit the sidewalk, he'll saunter toward the golden palace and tease you to dare to run over him. Don't worry, he won't let you. Then he'll run to the garage door and do the famous Houdini somersault—actually a headstand followed by rolling over on his back—all the while demanding "… pet me, now! …"

He's yours now, Lord. Pet him as often as you can.