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Nigel was a mean, spiteful, cat. I don't know how I'll live without him Nigel was a mean, spiteful, cat. I don't know how I'll live without him
(about 1 hour later)
I had my mean 15-year-old cat Nigel euthanized last month. He was a spitfire from the get-go, a feral black kitten, the runt of the litter, whose tiny wrath was remarkable to witness. I force-cuddled him, much to his dismay. His littermates adjusted quickly well to life on the inside but little Nigel, at nine weeks old, fought as if he were actually going to defeat me.I had my mean 15-year-old cat Nigel euthanized last month. He was a spitfire from the get-go, a feral black kitten, the runt of the litter, whose tiny wrath was remarkable to witness. I force-cuddled him, much to his dismay. His littermates adjusted quickly well to life on the inside but little Nigel, at nine weeks old, fought as if he were actually going to defeat me.
Related: If you live with a cat, you live with a weirdo: your tales of feline oddity | Guardian Readers
Of course, Nigel became my cat. He followed me into the bathroom. He sat on my lap all day. Sometimes if we were apart and I looked at him, he would purr audibly.Of course, Nigel became my cat. He followed me into the bathroom. He sat on my lap all day. Sometimes if we were apart and I looked at him, he would purr audibly.
But Nigel still raged. Still squawked. He left me bloody when I took him to the vet, and peed all over his brother. Nigel is the only pet I’ve had who has left me with a facial scar.But Nigel still raged. Still squawked. He left me bloody when I took him to the vet, and peed all over his brother. Nigel is the only pet I’ve had who has left me with a facial scar.
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When my daughter, Margaret, was born, Nigel staged a four-year-siege from a dining room chair, where he brooded under the table, hissing and occasionally reaching out a paw and swiping all passers-by. About two years in, I took him to the vet (more slices). Hundreds of dollars later, it was proclaimed that there was nothing wrong with him. When he emerged from his cave two years after that, he proceeded to scare Margaret by planting himself in her path. “Mom, Nigel’s in my way!” she would yell. “Just walk around him,” I would say. Then there would be a racket of hissing and crying.When my daughter, Margaret, was born, Nigel staged a four-year-siege from a dining room chair, where he brooded under the table, hissing and occasionally reaching out a paw and swiping all passers-by. About two years in, I took him to the vet (more slices). Hundreds of dollars later, it was proclaimed that there was nothing wrong with him. When he emerged from his cave two years after that, he proceeded to scare Margaret by planting himself in her path. “Mom, Nigel’s in my way!” she would yell. “Just walk around him,” I would say. Then there would be a racket of hissing and crying.
I got my love of drawing, and of drawing cats, from my dad. He used to draw pictures of my childhood hissy, mean, bony and formerly feral cat, Freddy, on my paper lunch bags. I have drawn hundreds of pictures of Nigel on Margaret’s daily lunch notes, and, in the summertime, I draw a cartoon of Nigel daily when we are vacationing with my family. In the summer cartoons, Nigel has called in a chopper in the middle of a hike; thrown his golf clubs up in a tree, and sat placidly on the beach while a drowning swimmer yells for help in the background. This summer, on drought-stricken Catalina Island, California, he was “water-wise” and pierced great plastic cubes of the precious stuff with his claw, fuming all the while.I got my love of drawing, and of drawing cats, from my dad. He used to draw pictures of my childhood hissy, mean, bony and formerly feral cat, Freddy, on my paper lunch bags. I have drawn hundreds of pictures of Nigel on Margaret’s daily lunch notes, and, in the summertime, I draw a cartoon of Nigel daily when we are vacationing with my family. In the summer cartoons, Nigel has called in a chopper in the middle of a hike; thrown his golf clubs up in a tree, and sat placidly on the beach while a drowning swimmer yells for help in the background. This summer, on drought-stricken Catalina Island, California, he was “water-wise” and pierced great plastic cubes of the precious stuff with his claw, fuming all the while.
In real life, Nigel ruined a snazzy new laptop by throwing up on it. On purpose. And he never failed to wake me up by braying and stepping on my windpipe.In real life, Nigel ruined a snazzy new laptop by throwing up on it. On purpose. And he never failed to wake me up by braying and stepping on my windpipe.
In the last few years of his life, though, he softened somewhat. He let Margaret pet him. He sometimes slept on my pillow or my head. He let me brush him again. He laid on the floor, smiling, in the kitchen.In the last few years of his life, though, he softened somewhat. He let Margaret pet him. He sometimes slept on my pillow or my head. He let me brush him again. He laid on the floor, smiling, in the kitchen.
Then it was time to let Nigel go. While we waited in the cold exam room for the vet, I held Nigel. He was featherlight, quiet. He tucked his head under my arm.Then it was time to let Nigel go. While we waited in the cold exam room for the vet, I held Nigel. He was featherlight, quiet. He tucked his head under my arm.
I told him again about how an angry little street kitten with crusty eyes came inside, and how I held that little kitten, who spat and hissed and scratched me with his wee ineffectual claws. How I fed him solid food from a spoon, and I showed him how to use the litterbox by taking his little paw and scratching some clay in a little fruit crate.I told him again about how an angry little street kitten with crusty eyes came inside, and how I held that little kitten, who spat and hissed and scratched me with his wee ineffectual claws. How I fed him solid food from a spoon, and I showed him how to use the litterbox by taking his little paw and scratching some clay in a little fruit crate.
“You’ve been a great kitty, Nigel,” I said. “I will see you again and please watch over me from heaven.” I don’t believe in a literal heaven. This is a metaphor. Maybe.“You’ve been a great kitty, Nigel,” I said. “I will see you again and please watch over me from heaven.” I don’t believe in a literal heaven. This is a metaphor. Maybe.
When I told Margaret, now 12, that Nigel had died, one of her first responses was “What are we going to do? We talk about Nigel all the time.” She proposed a solution: we can talk about what Nigel would do or say in any given situation. My dad still talks about Freddy, 30 years later, and sometimes offers her opinions. Freddy, like Nigel, doesn’t like much. He counseled me that Nigel would grow even greater in death.When I told Margaret, now 12, that Nigel had died, one of her first responses was “What are we going to do? We talk about Nigel all the time.” She proposed a solution: we can talk about what Nigel would do or say in any given situation. My dad still talks about Freddy, 30 years later, and sometimes offers her opinions. Freddy, like Nigel, doesn’t like much. He counseled me that Nigel would grow even greater in death.
“I actually feel his scorn now,” I said. “He denies ever knowing me.” Margaret also proposed a “Nigel in Heaven” storyline, which has already begun in this year’s lunch notes.“I actually feel his scorn now,” I said. “He denies ever knowing me.” Margaret also proposed a “Nigel in Heaven” storyline, which has already begun in this year’s lunch notes.
Related: If you live with a cat, you live with a weirdo: your tales of feline oddity | Guardian Readers
Nigel and I understood each other. Sometimes I hide, issuing no communications save for hisses and swipes. Nigel was a great shunner of cat food; I often opened can after can trying to find something he would eat, while he yelled at me. Once I found a kind he liked, he would shun that, too, after I laid in a small supply. Love, love, love, hate. That’s me as well.Nigel and I understood each other. Sometimes I hide, issuing no communications save for hisses and swipes. Nigel was a great shunner of cat food; I often opened can after can trying to find something he would eat, while he yelled at me. Once I found a kind he liked, he would shun that, too, after I laid in a small supply. Love, love, love, hate. That’s me as well.
It’s hard living without Nigel’s daily judgements and demands. I feel lost, a mere hairless ape who, lacking feline direction, doesn’t know what to do next.It’s hard living without Nigel’s daily judgements and demands. I feel lost, a mere hairless ape who, lacking feline direction, doesn’t know what to do next.
What would Nigel say?What would Nigel say?
“Life will be meaningless without me. Accept it. Shut up and tend to your next insignificant human task. Do that until you die, you cretinous cat-murdering hominid.”“Life will be meaningless without me. Accept it. Shut up and tend to your next insignificant human task. Do that until you die, you cretinous cat-murdering hominid.”
Got it. I shall now carry on with my hollow, Nigel-free existence.Got it. I shall now carry on with my hollow, Nigel-free existence.
Wait, did you hear that hiss?Wait, did you hear that hiss?