It’s a little bit quieter in the house as I write this column. A bit of a quiver meets the coffee from my “Cat Dad” mug.
We bid farewell to our beloved Biscuits last Friday afternoon. Diagnosed hyperthyroidism was actually a large intestinal tumor with no real path. His weight was way down too, which made the humane course clear. fresh cat food
That cream soda-colored, Maine coon mix brought so much joy and fun into our lives; I can only hope the feeling was mutual.
Just over a month ago we celebrated his adoptiversary, eight years since my wife and I walked into the Animal Rescue Foundation in Walnut Creek hand-in-hand and walked out holding a green carrier containing a 4-1/2-year-old kitty looking for us to be his “third time’s a charm” parents.
I might let slip accidentally in conversation that “we picked him” but really the opposite is true.
Moments after we made our way into and through the cat rooms that late afternoon, a friendly petite adult cat made a B-line for us.
The match was made. We did take the liberty of renaming him; Douglas Fir, as he was called (that’s right, not even the pun spelling), didn’t feel right to us. As I looked at him rolling around on the carpet and kneading his paws in the air, with that color fur, the name just popped into my mind like a clever headline idea: Biscuits.
Plural, because whoever had just one biscuit …
We were told he had been brought back to the shelter for a second time after being picked up by the county roaming the streets. One of the returns reportedly came after he’d become more attached to his owner’s boyfriend, and when they broke up, it didn’t work out with her anymore.
We actually noticed that in the Walsh household early on too, a “daddy’s cat”. He loved my wife, but that extra little affection went my way.
Like for years she tried (and failed) to get him to lay on her legs on the couch or sleep on top of her. Then one day, with no warning: boom, lap cat.
Biscuits was our first pet together, just one of several major milestones he marked with us.
Three months after his adoption, we closed on our first condo. He then moved with us to our house in 2021. He was the first family member to greet Francis when we brought him home on Christmas Day. Throw three NBA championships for our Warriors, and a global pandemic, on that list too.
He was an indoor cat with us – probably to his chagrin, as the tale of his life before us made it sound like he spent plenty of time out on the streets. Enough time, in my book.
Attentive with his human parents, laudably patient with our baby-turned-toddler and withdrawn (politely) from just about everyone else … that was our cat. His thin but ample hair would be everywhere. He’d come running from anywhere in the house at the sound of a Fancy Feast can (and only Fancy Feast) cracking open, so on cue that I’d joke he could do commercials. And boy was he photogenic.
Biscuits was generally in good health, until earlier this year when we noticed he was a little more vocally annoyed with us, eating a little less food and drinking a bit more water.
He was initially diagnosed over the summer with hyperthyroidism, something seen in roughly 10% of cats his age we were told.
He took the new pill regimen like a trooper, but his weight continued to drop over those next couple months.
We scheduled a follow-up appointment for Sept. 27 with another veterinarian, in part for a second opinion and in part because the customer-service vibes had become off with his old clinic (phone quotes different than the bill price in office, odd tones from the vet; those sorts of things).
Timing can be funny sometimes. Just the evening before I was taking an after-hours call with Pleasanton police Lt. Nicholas Albert, getting the scoop on the investigation into that terrible dog death from heat stroke on the apartment balcony from Sept. 24.
Who knew that barely 18 hours later I’d be saying goodbye to my own pet? I mean, it was certainly on my mind that the news could be bad with that vet visit — though his spirits were good, Biscuits was still very skinny, eating inconsistently — but I was not expecting an ultrasound to reveal an apparent large tumor, very likely untreatable.
I stepped out to the parking lot, called my wife and through tears she concurred that euthanasia was the only path. I went home to pick her up and we drove back to the clinic together.
Over the next half hour or so, the process played out. Methodical and respectful.
It was my first time being in the room when a pet was put down.
I’ve certainly been around death in my life. I’ve reported from car crash sites as a blanket-draped body is wheeled into the coroner’s van. I’ve covered murder trials as photo after photo of the crime scene is presented to the jury. I’ve watched multiple grandparents dying at the hospice stage, even being in the house at 14 years old as my grandpa took his final breath upstairs, surrounded by my grandma and his daughters. (His birthday, coincidently, was this Wednesday.)
But I’ll always remember the moments after the sedatives kicked in, our kitty’s eyes fully dilated, body motionless. He was already gone, for all intents and purposes, before the final injection coursed from the vein in his leg to his heart.
Biscuits Walsh died peacefully in my wife’s lap around 12:30 p.m. He was nearly 13 years old.
It’s funny what my mind fixates on sometimes. I remember glancing at the clock and thinking, “hey, wasn’t Francis born around this time?” Yeah, 12:09 p.m. And I was born at 1:21 p.m. A comforting connection to me, for some reason.
Our $374 bill paid, we walked out of the vet hand-in-hand with that same green carrier, empty this time. Then we laid down for a brief nap before I got up to churn out another candidate forum script and clear some stories.
We told our son the news after daycare that evening; he took it well, although it’s hard to know how much he really grasps the concept of death (or even life) at this age.
Just this Monday as we were leaving for the morning, Francis looked down where the food and water bowls used to be and asked, “Where’s my cat?” That’ll stop you in your tracks as a parent.
He’s in our hearts and he’s in our memories, little buddy. Biscuits is there with us forever.
Editor’s note: Jeremy Walsh is the editorial director for the Embarcadero Media Foundation’s East Bay Division. His “What a Week” column is a recurring feature in the Pleasanton Weekly, Livermore Vine and DanvilleSanRamon.com.
Jeremy Walsh is the editorial director of Embarcadero Media Foundation's East Bay Division, including the Pleasanton Weekly, LivermoreVine.com and DanvilleSanRamon.com. He joined the organization in late... More by Jeremy Walsh
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