Full circle.

In the early fall of 1994, I was in bad shape. I’d been on peritoneal dialysis for about a year, and while I was coping with it alright, it had been a hard year. In September, I received a blow that I hadn’t expected; my cat Angel, who had been with me for eleven years, had been diagnosed with cancer, and while we had tried to keep her comfortable and keep her appetite up with cortisone injections, I had come home to find her having a hard time just breathing. I took her to the vet, and after consultation, I had to make that tough decision. I had wanted to be with her as she left life, but the vet had not allowed me to; “It’s too hard”, she said, though whether she meant for her or for me, I don’t really know. I did stay in the waiting area until the vet came out to tell me Angel was gone, and I went to my car and cried like a little boy.I said I wouldn’t have another cat, that with my being on PD and on the transplant waiting list, I just couldn’t deal with it. But best laid plans….

In mid-November, my wife got a call from her cousin. It seemed that she had found a kitten underneath the hood of her truck… after she had arrived at WalMart. My wife asked me if I wanted the kitten. I said no, “but if you want to get one, okay, so long as you realize that it would be your cat.” I placed a few qualifications on the situation: only if it’s female, we don’t need a male cat spraying everything before we get him neutered, etc.

Big talk.

Joy went to get the kitten from her cousin’s. She took the kitten by the vet, and called me after the visit.

“It’s a boy”, she said, rather tentatively. “Do you want me to take him back?”

“Well, no”, I answered, “bring him on. He’s your cat, though, remember.”

A few minutes later Joy arrived at our apartment. I went to the door to open it for her, because I knew she’d be trying to handle the kitten, and…well, I went to the door. She walked in with this little ball of pale marmalade fur, and as I looked down into her cupped palms, two bright gold-green eyes looked back up at me.

I was lost. And so Charlemagne came into my life.

I spent a lot of time at home in those days; I was on disability, and could only work a little bit, a “working test” they called it. Anyway, Charlemagne and I spent a lot of time together. Before I knew it, we were bonded more closely than I had ever known with a cat, even Angel. Charlemagne became my best friend, curling up in my lap, sitting with me as I watched TV or read a book. He was always with me…save for the times he was rending Joy’s ankles, but that’s another story.

So we watched him grow. As the new year turned, he was still a small fellow, but he was beginning to pick up weight. And then, on February 19, 1995, we got the call from Emory, and with a last cuddle with the kitty, I was off to my surgery.

I had a long stay in the hospital. During my stay, my father-in-law brought me a color copy of a photo of Charlemagne. It cheered me through my weeks in the hospital. And when I came home (the second time; I had to go back for a rejection episode), Charlemagne was there waiting for me. He cuddled up next to me on the couch and we continued right where we left off.

That was thirteen years ago. Charlemagne is the family elder statesman now, our Wholly Roaming Empurroar, as we dubbed him early in his career. (Yeah, I know, too cute. Sue me.) We have four other cats (Demelza, Stascha, Pippin (boy’s name, girl cat; again, sue me), and Flicker. And this year our dog Chloe joined us. But Charlemagne is still my cat…or perhaps more correctly, I am his human.

A couple of years ago Charlemagne was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. We’ve had him on medication ever since. Last week, however, we got some bad news; Charlemagne, who came into my life as my kidneys had failed, and, I sometimes like to think, brought me the good fortune of my transplant when he arrived in Joy’s cupped hands, now may be suffering from chronic kidney disease.

He is thirteen; we were almost expecting some development like this, since he had been sick with the thyroid problem for several years. But this…this was hard to take, especially from my perspective. The vet has upped his meds, doubling the thyroid medication dose, and we are working on getting him some better food, in hopes that a better diet might help him. It is all strangely familiar: low protein, low phosphorus, high potassium. Of course, I’m jumping the gun a bit, but…well, the symptoms as described on the UGA Vet School site are pretty convincing: vomiting, heavy tartar build-up on his teeth, frequent urination and thirst, lack of energy; all of which seem to be troubling him.

We’ll do what we can. He is my child. I know he’s got fur and a tail, but he’s my baby boy, my good luck charm, my friend. He’s Charlemagne.