In Memory of Pam

[inferiorwit]

On March 19, 2024, my cat died.

In October of 2017, my friend Amber accompanied me to a kitten adoption event at the Edmonton Humane Society. After we'd been standing in line for a while, a staff member came by to announce that there were no kittens left; they'd all been adopted.

Amber suggested we take a look around the shelter and see if there were any other cats that caught my eye. Next to us was a big glass window into one of the communal cat rooms. Inside, I caught a glimpse of the room's only occupant: an enormous ball of fur, tucked into the corner.

Eventually Amber and I made our way around to that room and found a huge, massively overweight brown tabby with a long, matted coat. I reached out to pet her and immediately received several bleeding wounds for this transgression. We checked the paperwork in the room and discovered this cat was eight years old, with a reduced adoption fee due to her age and general unfriendliness.

Later, Amber would say it was love at first sight. I went home and slept on the decision, and the next morning she drove me back out to the Humane Society.

When I handed in the paperwork, the staff said, "Are you sure?" Then they sent someone to put on a pair of very long gloves and cram her into the biggest temporary carrier they had, which still wasn't big enough. I was encouraged to lift the carrier from the bottom, as the cardboard handles would likely snap under the cat's weight. Amber drove me home, the cat complaining the entire way; I placed the carrier in my darkened bedroom, opened it, and left the cat to explore the apartment on her own terms.

When I was a kid, my dad once went out to buy a goldfish and came back with a cocker spaniel. Many years later, my parents went to the pet store for dog food and came home with a Jack Russell terrier. It's therefore pretty typical that I went out to adopt a kitten and came home with the biggest, oldest, crankiest cat available.

I named her The Final Pam.

Pam emerged from the bedroom that afternoon and came to investigate the game of Dungeons & Dragons I was playing with a few friends. She was happy to be fussed over, but quick to inform us when she'd had enough. That night, she climbed into bed with me — then attempted to sleep on my back, which led to a sudden wake-up call when I stopped breathing. After that, she was content to sleep beside me instead.

She didn't sleep easy, at first. According to her paperwork, she'd been found alone on the streets in Grande Prairie and transferred to Edmonton after a prolonged stay at the shelter there. She probably wasn't feral — no feral cat gets up to a weight of 9kg — but nobody came looking for her. Nobody wanted her. She hissed in her sleep and often woke up yowling; she was having nightmares.

When Pam arrived in Edmonton, her belly was shaved, indicating she'd been spayed at the Grande Prairie shelter. Before that, she must've gone through eight years of heats. I wondered if she'd had kittens. Whether she missed them. Maybe that's what the nightmares were about.

It took a while to brush the mats out of Pam's coat; she'd only tolerate it for a few minutes at a time. At the vet's recommendation, I put her on a diet to help her lose weight. She quickly became a minor celebrity among my family, friends, and coworkers.

Pam always wanted to be in the room with me, even if she wasn't up for a cuddle. She hated the outdoors, but loved to gaze out the window — especially if there were birds. My friend Zach helped me bring home a cat tree to give her a better view. She didn't fit, but she also didn't seem to mind much.

The following spring, my parents came to stay with me while they finalized a permanent move back to Canada from Palm Springs in California. They brought their dogs with them, and we quickly learned a new fact about Pam: she hated other animals. All of them, without exception.

I took to feeding Pam in my room, to keep the dogs out of her food. One morning, there was some leftover food in Pam's dish; my mother's dog, Pepper, nosed her way into my bedroom and helped herself. I woke to a furious howl from Pam. She'd caught Pepper.

Pam chased Pepper into the door, knocking it closed and trapping Pepper inside. She then backed Pepper into my closet, cornering her there for a thorough telling-off. I managed to intervene before things got physical and rescued Pepper, ejecting her from the room.

Pepper kept her distance from Pam, after that.

Despite this incident, Pam was invited to my parents' new house for Christmas that year — and every year afterwards. My dad was especially fond of her, although unfortunately the feeling wasn't mutual; she drew blood on him multiple times. One summer, while I was visiting family in Ontario, she spent a few weeks at their house terrorizing the dogs and lounging on the patio.

Pam's cat tree eventually broke, immediately transforming into a trebuchet that launched her across the apartment. She was fine, if a little surprised. Before I had a chance to buy a replacement, I was offered a job overseas in the UK.

Getting Pam to Newcastle became one of the great logistical challenges of my life. She stayed with my dad for a few months, sulking under the stairs and attacking him at the slightest provocation, before a pet transport company arranged to have her flown to the UK. The cost of all this vastly eclipsed her original adoption fee, and Pam instantly became the most expensive animal I've ever owned.

Pam adjusted quickly to her move overseas. My new flat didn't have a balcony, so we went on field trips to nearby parks instead; she even went with me on a business trip to Leamington Spa. The sight of a cat on a leash was usually cause for comment, and Pam accepted the admiration of strangers as her due. Later, I moved to a flat with an enclosed back patio. There was a pigeon infestation in the condemned building next door, which brought Pam no end of entertainment.

She still had the occasional nightmare, every few months.

As she aged, Pam's weight dropped; she went from slightly obese to slightly emaciated. She developed arthritis in her hips, and started to receive monthly injections of an anti-inflammatory drug to stay limber.

Despite all this, she remained as opinionated as ever. On one occasion, I came home after work to discover her food dish — empty that morning — had been refilled. The cleaners were in that day, and Pam had successfully bullied them into feeding her.

In mid-March, however, Pam took a sudden turn for the worse. She became reluctant to leave her favourite hiding spot near the radiator, only doing so to eat and drink. One evening, I realized she was having trouble walking; her gait was wobbly and unsteady, as if she were having trouble keeping her legs under her. She seemed dazed, uncertain of where she was and what was happening.

I called the vet the next morning. They did house calls, and came by the flat around noon to examine her. It became clear that Pam's quality of life would only deteriorate from here. The vets explained my options, and I chose to put her down.

Pam went to sleep for the last time in my arms. From the day I brought her home to the day she died, she was never alone again.

I loved her.

I miss her.

Comments

[southernmedicine]

I'm so sorry for your loss, but that was a beautiful recounting of the good life she had with you.