His Last Supper

An appreciation of Brendan the feral cat

Brendan on Sunday.

Of all the feral cats that came for supper, he was the most beat up. One eye missing. Something weird going on with his skeleton. A little on the thin side.

Feral cats, at least in this row house neighborhood, travel in packs. A mama with a new litter may get nursing backup from another female, as we witnessed this summer. A son from one litter became an uncle rather than a big brother to the mom’s newest batch of babies.

But Brendan — that’s what we named him a year ago this week — was not interested in group dynamics. He swatted at the kittens when they got too close; he hissed when the food came out as he rushed to make sure he got his own bowl.

It was icebox cold when he first appeared, like it is right now. We could tell then that he needed a little extra loving. And in this house, that means food. We saved the silver skin from our salmon dinner and leftover chicken schmaltz from a pot of stock. We chopped it up and warmed the fat for a few seconds in the microwave and stirred in a little kibble. He couldn’t get the food in fast enough. Then he’d ask for more. A big meow followed by a hiss as we approached with a second helping. But I could read through those lines. This was a front, a necessary shield for a solo traveler.

He licked his chops and stuck around to bathe. He didn’t just eat and run like Marty, his occasional running buddy and cat about town, who had places to go and deals to make.

Brendan, it seemed, was looking for a home base.

The next day, he was back. And the next and the next and the next. Always the same, a distinct meow – the cat equivalent of a howl – followed by a non-threatening hiss and a voracious appetite. A few weeks in, we noticed he started looking better. A little less gaunt. A little smoother on the coat. Grouchy still, but with a little more spring in that step.

As the days got lighter and winter turned into spring, he’d linger for longer, looking for a sunny patch in which he could stretch and fully relax. He found a folded up tarp protected by an eave, where he could perch while it rained without getting wet. He had a full view of the yard and was conveniently within earshot of our kitchen door opening and being called to eat.

Next door, where the old couple had moved to a nursing home and whose middle-aged kids barely kept up with the yard, the grass was tall, perfect lounging for a one-eyed creature that wanted to be close but not too much.

“This is his home,” Russ said, one spring day while pulling weeds.

None of the other cats did this, not like Brendan. He’d curl up in the cardboard box lid we had set out on the back steps and not just because he was hungry. He was home.

I’m not sure when we started with the rotisserie chicken. It started by accident, Russ reminded me.

We had bought one from a local Peruvian joint for dinner and scraped off the last bits of fat and meat for the ferals. They didn’t like it — no, they were CRAZY in love. Especially Brendan. His meow morphed into an extended yowl. A mix of ‘I’ve never felt like this before’ and ‘there had better be more from where this came.’

If he hadn’t been in so much pain — something that we came to better understand in recent days — he might have brushed against my legs when I put out food. But we just had to take his meow words for it. Rotisserie chicken was his favorite.

Spring morphed into summer, and summer into fall, and we marveled that he was still here. Not that he was looking worse but that the life he lived was precarious. One day, we found a black and white cat that we had never seen before dead on the pavement right outside our kitchen. Brendan came round to watch us figuring out how to dispose of it. A reminder of that fragility.

We started buying a rotisserie chicken just for the cats (but especially for Brendan). We’d mix it with kibble and divvy it up among five bowls; the word had gotten out that our place was the most delicious place for miles.

Some mornings before it got too hot, we’d find him sleeping on a patio chair, an orange cushion for his mattress. As the sun moved from east to west and shined directly on the yard, he’d find shade in the neighbor’s tall grass. We’d just see the pointy part of his ears poking above. I chuckled every time. One September evening a thunderstorm blew in and four cats lined up (“like loaves of bread,” said Russ) on the back steps, heads down in bowls placed in the doorway.

In a year in which Cruelty has been the point, these feline vignettes have been a balm, even when the cast of characters tried crapping in my raised beds. Our own little backyard theater.

Mid-November, a turn. Two days before leaving town, we noticed blood dripping from Brendan’s mouth. Maybe he broke a tooth, I wondered. Maybe he got in a fight. We were concerned but less so the next day because he was eating just as ever as he had in our eleven-month relationship. Curled up on a cushion. Meowing for his supper. And this was the life of the feral cat, we reminded ourselves.

While away for nearly two weeks, a friend came by and did a daily feeding of canned food. In those two weeks, fall turned to winter. In those two weeks, things went downhill for our guy.

We didn’t see him the day after getting home like we did the other cats. Not until two days later, with one side of his face had blown up like a softball. His fur, especially around his paws, matted. His meow more like a cry.

“Brendan,” I said, opening the door wide. “Come on in buddy,” motioning to the inside of the house.

He came in.

Things must be really bad. This was not a cat that just comes in.

“I’ll go out and get some chicken,” Russ said.

We helped bring him back to health a year ago, I thought. Maybe chicken was a panacea and we could nurse him back to health, I kept telling myself.

He ate bowl after bowl. Lapped up water. Curled up into a dish towel-lined box.

A few hours later, it was time to go, he told us. And it went on like this for a few days. Eat, meow, drink, get warm, go back out.

We were heartened, relieved. The swelling had gone down, or so it seemed.

But we didn’t know what we didn’t see — that an infection was ravaging his mouth and had spread underneath his eye. That his kidneys had stopped working properly and he became incontinent. That his story was about to end.

Sunday morning, around seven, he was at the back door. It had snowed overnight. The deep freeze on its way. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’ll sleep on the couch and stay close,” Russ said.

Monday we knew we needed outside help. Russ learned about a local organization with a 24-hour hotline. If we could get Brendan into a humane trap, they said, they would pick him up and take him to the vet.

No thanks, the wily Brendan said. He wasn’t going to fall for our ruse. The next morning, another try.

A full bowl of chicken at the far end of the trap. With the help of our friend Ben, Russ got Brendan contained. The local humane people would be here in an hour.

We knew this was goodbye. When the nice woman from the humane group arrived, she removed the blanket on top.

“Hi buddy,” she said.

Brendan was calm, sitting in sphinx pose in front of the bowl. He had eaten all of his chicken.

Many thanks to Orca.