On July 20, 2010 Strolch died. This is
the e-mail I sent to my friends:
Strolch, the cat whose name no-one
could pronounce who was not born in Germany, and who was my
constant companion for over 17 years, died this evening. Strolch
had a tumor in his sinuses that had been growing slowly. A year
ago the vet gave him only three months to live, but with
steroids we managed to slow the tumor’s growth, and Strolch
lived out all of his nine lives.
I had Strolch him since he was a
kitten. Beate named him; his name means “Little Rascal.” In his
first year, Strolch helped me through the ordeal of studying for
the Chartered Financial Analyst exam. When I was sitting at the
desk with my books, he’d climb up my pants by digging in his
little claws, then jump on the table and chase the pen with
which I was taking notes until he got tired and dropped off to
sleep next to the books or on my lap.
Strolch was an affectionate cat; he
would start to purr the moment I picked him up. He was
a Siamese, and he formed the singular attachments of his
breed. He bonded with me early on, and then tolerated the rest
of the world. He and I loved each other without reservations,
and he trusted me completely. He would come to me when I called
him, rare for a cat.
As a Siamese Strolch had
personality to spare, and he could be demanding: still last week
he jumped up on my desk, looked straight at me and with a loud
Siamese “Meow!” demanded that I pick him up and pet him,
something he did all his life when he thought I had not been
paying him the attention he was due. He used to sleep on top of
me at night, his paws on my collarbone and his face next to
mine, and he’d rub his face against me when the mood struck him.
I had been prepared for Strolch’s
end ever since the diagnosis last year, and I considered every
day with him a gift, treasuring each moment we spent
together. Three days ago he still had a healthy appetite and
gobbled down a huge portion of Liz’ antelope. And then suddenly
he stopped, the tumor had enlarged, he did not want to eat
anymore, and even shunned my attention. It was clear that
something had changed drastically in the last two days, and I
became convinced today that he was suffering, and that had
always been my mental end point. Tanya, our neighbor, the vet
who helped Bandit on his last day, concurred with me that
steroids wouldn’t work any more, and she gently put him to sleep
this evening while I held him, saying goodbye to him and crying.
I am very, very sad; I’ll miss
Strolch the rest of my life; I feel numb, but I’m at peace; I know that I did
the right thing. Strolch had a good life, he was well taken care
of and loved by Beate, Sonia and me, and I made sure that he did
not suffer unnecessarily at the end. I am very grateful to
have spent over a decade and a half with such a wonderful
creature as a close friend and companion.
Like with Bandit last year, our
neighbors came with a backhoe and dug a grave for him. He now
lies buried next to Bandit, and we will plant roses on his final
resting place.
As we dug his grave, we saw
from the indentations in the grass that all five of our horses
had lain down to sleep last week forming a circle around
Bandit’s grave.
-web.jpg)
