Hokke

Ten years is a long time but not nearly long enough to spend with you.

I met Hokke in a cat cafe in Kumamoto, Japan almost ten years ago. Today my wife and I buried him next to a tree in DeWitt, New York. It was the hardest, most gut-wrenching thing I've ever had to do, and I’d do it a thousand times over if I could go back. 

From the first moment we met, we formed a close bond. Hokke was a snot-faced little cat around 10 months old. He was born to a stray litter and suffered badly from infections in his nose, eyes, and ears from those early days on the streets of Kumamoto. The shelter that took him in got surgery for his bad eye but not early enough to prevent a lifetime of issues. His left eye was always a little cloudy and prone to infection. His nose would sometimes run. 

I got quite adept at clearing any discharge with a single stroke of my thumb. He trusted me completely from the beginning. That first day, I wiped his face and he fell asleep in my lap and I knew we’d have to adopt him. Levy was the main driving force in that effort. She returned to the cafe a day later and Hokke picked up where he left off. We went through the application process and took him home about two weeks later. We promised to take him with us if we moved, no matter where. 

He was quiet in the cafe but we soon learned he was a vocal cat on the taxi ride home and when we let him out of the carrier. He fell asleep between our heads that first night and would spend every single night that followed either on my chest, Levy’s chest, or between our heads. 

A week later we got another kitten, the cat we agreed to take in before meeting Hokke, and the only “official” cat in our residence as far as our landlord knew. She was quite taken with Momo in fairness and came by to say goodbye to him when we moved out. Hokke was initially much bigger than Momo but treated him kindly and they became firm friends. He was always nice to the foster cats we took in after the earthquake, even if our temporary cats weren’t always keen on him. 

His appetite for food was only matched by his desire for a warm lap or chest to sleep on. I completed most of the essays for my master’s degree with Hokke curled up on my lap. When I started making a living from writing, there he was. I feel his absence as I type these words.

I knew a long time ago our time with him would be limited. Age would worsen his condition and I vowed that I would not let him suffer when his health began to fail. I also promised I would hold him in his final moments, I would not let him pass alone and frightened. I would sometimes look at his loving face and feel deep, profound sadness that our final day was drawing ever closer. Yet when that terrible day did come, I had no idea it was his last.

He slowed down a bit when he turned 10. He’d still jump into our arms but struggled to clear our hips and we’d have to stoop to catch him. He slept more and his sinuses got a little worse each year. We found some success with medication but a few days ago he stopped eating and his nose ran like a faucet. When we took him to the vet, we really thought we just needed new or stronger medication to manage his worsening condition. I spoke to Levy about making sure he’d be comfortable but warning her we’d probably have to make a tough choice in a couple of years.

It was a couple of hours.

The bloodwork came back and the cause of his distress wasn’t his chronic sinus issues getting worse but his kidneys had all but given out. I felt my heart sink at the news. There’s no way a cat with such a fragile immune system survives for long even with treatment. The vet gently suggested it might be time to say goodbye. Levy tearfully asked if taking him home for one more night was possible, he hesitantly said it was but would leave us to talk about it. 

I wanted nothing more than to take him home and let him spend one more night with us but I made a promise. He was dying. My heart shattered into a thousand pieces but I knew what the right call was. Tonight, while he was still sentient, still able to feel our love, and no agonizing return trip to the vet. Car rides frighten him. I wouldn’t do that to him.

We shakily walked to the reception and said we’d made our decision. The staff were kind and professional, emergency veterinarians must deal with this every shift. I held it together for a while but I broke when they asked what we wanted to do with his body. I said I wanted to bury him next to a tree but I didn’t get the whole word out. I wanted the other cats to see him so they wouldn’t be confused when he didn’t come home. When I thought of how Momo would feel, I cried again.

They brought him in with a blanket and an electronic bell. We could take as long as we needed they said, just ring the bell when we’re ready. Hokke had been given fluids so looked better. He meowed his fearful meow but purred loudly when we held him. He bit my chin as he often did in better times. We told him how much we loved him. It wasn’t real. This couldn’t be our last moment. But it was. Levy couldn’t press the bell so I did. Eventually. 

The vet brought in two needles and explained the first would put him to sleep, the second would stop his heart. There would be no pain. We laid him on the blanket and I cupped his head in my hand. As the first injection went in I sobbed loudly, raw, ugly anguish I made no attempt to hide as his head grew heavy in my hand. His one good eye closed heavily for the last time as the second injection went in. I placed my other hand on his chest as the vet checked for a nonexistent heartbeat. 

“Hokke has passed away,” he said gently. “I’m so sorry.”

I kissed Hokke’s head one final time and we went to the car to wait for his body. We spoke little but held hands in silent grief. At that awful moment, I felt an overwhelming feeling of love for my wife. We took his body home in a little cardboard coffin. I drove us home in near silence, feeling waves of grief come and go. I kept expecting to hear his frightened meows coming from the box but they never came. I blinked tears out of my eyes as we rounded the last corner home. 

We let the other animals see him. Momo was of course the most affected. He sniffed his brother for a while and then found a corner to hide in. Maple, Nacho, and Sunny all got to see him before we closed his coffin again. 

I took him to my work chair and sat down for a long time, the same chair we’d spent countless hours together in. “How am I going to write anything now?” I asked weakly. We left him there for the night. We barely slept without that comforting weight on our chests. Nacho and Sunny did their best but neither like to stay in the same place long. Momo was nowhere to be found.

The next day it was raining heavily and we got to the final task for Hokke. His resting spot. I said I wanted him to have somewhere with sunlight but broke for the umpteenth time before I could get the rest of the words out. The little spades we had for clearing snow were no good so we borrowed a proper shovel from a friend. 

The ground was damp and full of stones, the shovel could do little to break the earth and we almost gave up. We firmed our resolve and dug. We mostly used our hands to pick roots and large stones out of the dirt. It took a long time but it felt cathartic. Just concentrating on a simple task helped. We took Hokke out and placed him gently in the hole. I broke yet again, sobbing pitifully as I covered his body with a handful of dirt at a time. I couldn’t bear to cover his face. In some stupid, irrational part of my brain, I didn’t want him to suffocate. I still felt like he was going to wake up somehow.

We gave him a layer of dirt and piled the rocks we’d picked out of the earth on top. I asked him to say hello to Lewis (another beloved cat gone too soon) when he saw him. Though they never met, I took comfort in imagining the two of them cat-loafing together somewhere in the great beyond. A place of endless sunshine and treats, with streams full of Churu, somewhere comfortable to wait for us.

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Epilogue

This was a difficult and emotionally draining piece to write but writing helps me grieve. 

As I reflect on his last day, I realize it was the best that it could possibly have been. He didn’t suffer, he wasn’t afraid, and he didn’t die alone. We didn’t have the emotional sword of Damocles hanging over us for long. I can scarcely imagine the anguish of driving to the vet knowing the end had come. Hokke peacefully died in the arms of two people who loved him dearly.

So long as I draw breath, I will never forget my special little cat and feel immense gratitude for our years together. I knew I was making an emotional Faustian bargain when I took him in and I’d do it again without hesitation. The immense sadness I feel now is nothing compared to the decade of joy I received. 

I love you Hokke.