Chester Cat

When I started blogging, I told myself that I would stick to political hi-jinx and stupidity, and I would leave my personal stuff out of it. I even went so far as to look at other blogs for some idea's of what not to do. I read a blog from some young woman that detailed the activities of her cats, and I cringed. I went so far as to ask a friend of mine to shoot me if I ever blogged about my cat. I understand, that for the most part, a personal blog is like your diary left open at your bedside, few will read it or care. Even so, in this case, I will violate my rule, and request that my friend not fulfill my previous wish.
Chester was a damn good cat. He lived a life of mystery before we took him in, but we knew that he had been homeless for a while. We found him at our vet when we went in for treatment for another cat. We had no business thinking about taking him in, but for some reason, he bonded with my wife and daughters, so much so that they couldn't get him out of their minds. What kind of monster would say NO! to that? Apparently not me.
We ended up taking him in, and it was a match made in heaven...rhetorically speaking. He had his flaws. He was skittish, having lived at the vets office for a few months. He was missing his front sharp teeth, so he drooled a bit when he was happy. But, Chester's biggest flaw was what we later thought might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). He would be totally happy in your lap, but if there was a loud noise, he would freak out and jump with all claws rampant, what we came to call "Chester's Gang-way". We all had scars from it, but nobody ever really held him responsible. We all assumed it stemmed from his previous unfortunate lifestyle.
We all loved him, but when he started losing weight, we didn't know what to do. We were going through some personal changes, moving, etc. so we thought that was the problem, but when his weight dropped by half,I took him to the vet.
After palpating Chester's abdomen for what I thought was way too long, the doctor told me he had a tumor. A tumor as large as an egg. I stupidly asked if he meant a hen's egg, and he said,"Yes." I felt like an idiot. My previously 12 pound cat was now six pounds, with a hen's egg sized tumor inside him??? What kind of idiot was I?
I finally understood that I was not a veterinarian, so how could I have known about the tumor? Yet, as human, or humane as I am, I still held onto some hope about death. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, perhaps more likely my own inability to accept death, but I would not "put down" Chester. If Colin Powell can say that if we break Iraq, we have bought it, then once you name your pet, you are responsible, even unto death.
Today, Chester died. That is the saddest and most important sentence I have ever written. He taught me many things. That redemption is not always your choice, but if you live right it will come to you. That social faux-pas will be forgiven, if you mean well. That perseverance will be rewarded.
When we brought Chester into the vets office at the end, I will admit to more than one teary phone-call to make an appointment, the vet asked us how long he had been in the coma-like state, straining to stay with us ? When we told him, somewhat sheepishly, two hours, he responded with a question that was tinged with surprise and awe, " Two Hours, that long?"We understood that Chester had held out longer than this doctor could believe. That was the cat we had grown to love. We will miss him, I am not ashamed to say I loved him, and does anyone have a good way to dry these damn tears off of the keyboard?