Let me tell you a story. About one year ago, a stray cat came to our house and we named him Dexter. He was a nice enough cat but somehow maladjusted. You see, he would bite quite unexpectedly and so, after inflicting such bites upon us all, and after mewwing insistently at my bedroom window at 2, 3 and 4 am several nights in a row, I began to throw water on him until he learned to prowl clear of our place.
Days later, a little calico cat came to our house and we named her String. This one proved to be quite the hunter; I named her after her deft physique and graceful gait. We have many amazing stories about String but suffice it that she in short time completely overpowered the fearsome Dexter and this was a Victory for Good.
Our landlords have a strict no-cats policy, and we've been good to only occasionally let the various neighbourhood cats in. However, something quite dreadful happened to our dear String several months ago, which coincided with a visit from Lisa. Her leg was injured and she really looked depressed; something evidently got the upper hand on her: coyote, car, or cat-- and in cases like this one can only guess.
So in the words of Lisa, we had to "decide how much we loved this cat", and it turned out not quite enough to take her to a vet (at least not at first) but enough to let her stay indoors at night, and to feed her. A month later, she was well, nature having performed repairs on her lascerated fore-elbow. Our cat at last was back to normal. Sort of.
When you let a cat in and feed it, it tends to stay in doors. And so for the past few months she has gradually migrated in. When the landlords visited, it was always a little awkward to explain why this particular stray cat was so interested in coming in. We feigned ignorance, and admitted we sometimes let her in. So in that respect this Sunday when they paid us a visit things oughtn't have been any different than other rent-days, except perhaps that this time we forgot to hide the cat food.
Whatever tenuous thread of sanity guides them through their old age finally broke and our landlords laid down the law; the cat had to be "gotten rid of". More specifically, we were to phone the SPCA and they would "take care of it". Put it down, we prosted? "No, they don't do that." Lies! But even this wasn't enough: it turned out that not only did we have to kill our own pet, we had to "prove" that we had, in fact, done this. Otherwise, they wouldn't believe us. How to prove to two senile old bats that your beloved family member is truly gone, no matter what happens?
We sat in the kitchen arguing. We protested that the cat could stay outside-- to no avail. Over and over the old hag shouted at us, in our kitchen: "No cats! No cats! No cats!" This went on for a half hour until it was clear that there would be no comprimise.
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Gradually, I realized what must be done. All witnesses were present: the four roommates, two landlords, and God in Heaven of all beings feline, Human and landlordly. And so I lifted slowly the hatchet by the fireplace and with my other arm carried our beloved pet out back to the chopping block. Our landlords had driven their pristine 1960s BMW convertible, a true classic, less than 30k miles on it, and worth about a hundred and fifty thousand. They always drove this vehicle to collect rent and conduct their vaguely illegal inspections. There was no doubt in our minds that this was to rub in our faces their power over us. Well never mind, we were young, and they are old. This thought was retribution enough: they wouldn't live much longer than String, anyhow, their final days spent senile in some upscale seniors retirement joint that would fleece their last dollars out of them.
Cherishing this moment, this terrible anticipation, I laid String down. She looked up at me with eyes that know what must be done. For a sliver of time human and cat minds met as one. Both of us were prepared; as much as one can be to carry out such an irreversible act. I lifted the hatchet...
... and smashed in their front window, chopped the upholstery to bits, and pickaxed the tires. Jumping into the drivers seat, madmanly I popped the hood and before they could do anything took the axe to the 6-cylinder feat of postwar German engineering. String, showing exquisite timing, took this opportunity to urinate in the back seat, meowing with glee. The landlords let loose a confused hollar, the hag herself slumping in abject shock while my roommates simply crossed their arms and chuckled. Minutes later, finally finished my holy rampage, I wiped the sweat from my brow, standing on the bashed-in front hood and flashed at them a bitter, wide-mouthed grin.
We'd have to find another place to live, and I'd have to declare bankruptcy to avoid paying the inevitable damages, maybe even spend some time in jail, but somehow we all knew it was worth it. A friend, even if feline, is worth more than gold and jewels.
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The alternate ending to this story, and the one that is true, is actually a little better. On June 16 Kevin leaves to canoe across Canada, and possibly also America, and ever there was a cat fit for such a trip it's our dear String. She is able bodied, unshakable, and an intelligent, apt hunter; and just wild enough to look after herself on the mighty Saskatchewan River.
Godspeed, String. Look out for our friend, Kevin, and if you run away, well then best of luck. In your cat-like ways you live your life with bravery (that is, when you aren't sleeping in the blue chair), and we would do well to imitate you.