In Memory of Yuli

Today, I buried my cat, Yuli.

Wifie and I took him to the vet this morning because he had been unwell and he had quite suddenly gone deaf. Suspecting an infection that had spread to his ears, we were stunned to find he was dying of a particularly aggressive form of bone cancer. The cancer – which was quite clear in the X-rays, was eating away at his jaw, was constricting his throat, and was probably inside his cranium.

We agreed with the vet that euthanasia was a better option than letting the poor little guy choke to death, or starve to death. So we petted him talked to him and cried while the vet gave him a sedative and then a lethal injection.

Cats tread very lightly on the Earth. All that Yuli left behind were a few plates and a bowl and a brush for his fur. That and a grieving surrogate mother who had cared for him and loved him, enjoyed his company, and marvelled at his quirky personality for seventeen-and-a-half years.

And me, of course. In my gruff, masculine way, I'd grumbled about him and pretended not to like him as much as I really did. But I'll miss him. I already miss him.

So we cracked a bottle of champagne and had a wake for our lost friend. We buried him in one of his favourite places and we toasted him and reminded each other of all the good things and all the bad things about him. And we laughed and cried and remembered him.