Saying goodbye to Alvin

In a shockingly abrupt development, yesterday we tearfully bid farewell to our beloved cat of nine years.

This morning, for the first time in nearly nine years, the Barons woke up without a special four-legged friend in our lives.

At 12:03 p.m. yesterday, we said goodbye to our beloved cat, Alvin. As Bridgett and I both gently stroked his furry and weary 10-pound body, he took his last breath at the animal hospital down the street.

Barely two hours earlier, we had taken him there because he had been lethargic the past few days and had stopped eating.

An X-ray and panel of tests revealed “not so good news,” as the vet put it. Within a few minutes of that sobering introduction, and after laying out more data points and details—Alvin probably had cancer, along with a host of other issues—the vet added, “I don’t think it’s wrong to say goodbye to him.”

Bidding farewell to my close feline buddy.

The remark was a jolt to our hearts. Through tears, Bridgett coordinated a FaceTime call with our children so they could see Alvin one last time and say goodbye via their Smartphones. Eleven-year-olds when Alvin entered their life, both are now on college campuses.

Although we’ve had four other cats before, only once had we gone through this euthanasia process. That was Rudy, a supremely fluffy orange-haired cat that we adopted as a kitten in 1992 and who brightened our lives for 15 years.

At the end, Bridgett took our then 4-year-old kids to a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts while I accompanied Rudy at a vet clinic. His farewell was a protracted goodbye, spanning weeks—months, really—of declining health.

We saw it coming, even when we didn’t want to see it. If anything, in retrospect, we were concerned that we had let him linger too long.

Alvin, a few years ago, pursuing his hobby of lounging around.

By contrast, Alvin was active almost to the very end. He was showing signs of slowing down, but we chalked that up to getting old.

Losing a pet is never easy, but as a glass-half-full guy, I feel compelled to note that Alvin had one sensational life. We are in a densely populated area with townhouses all around, and plenty of room to roam away from busy streets.

A classic Alvin stretch on our patio, December 2021.

And roam Alvin did, popping up on neighbors’ patios on a daily basis and making friends along the way. Sure, he had skirmishes with neighbor cats here and there, but by and large he led a life of outdoor adventure and indoor peace and comfort that was a best-of-both-worlds dream.

Our next-door neighbor Joe Crosetto with a marvelous depiction of Alvin peering through their patio door window and greeting a pair of fellow felines. The only embellishment is the sombrero on Alvin’s head.

On top of that, Alvin enjoyed over four years of “bonus time” with us.

Back story: When we first adopted him from an animal shelter as a 10-week-old, we also adopted his sister, Chloe. But they never got along and in July 2019, I’d had enough of the fallout from their fighting—especially Chloe’s “marking turf” by peeing anywhere but her kitty litter.

So, back to the animal shelter they both went.

One week ago, Alvin staring me down as I watched the World Series and worked on my laptop. Minutes later, he was on my lap—even as I kept writing.

When Bridgett returned home from work that evening, she was beside herself with grief. Chloe she could live without. Alvin was a different matter. The next day, we returned to the shelter and reclaimed him.

As a solo feline family member, Alvin blossomed. He grew into an integral part of our daily rhythm, inevitably cuddling with one or both of us for extended stretches. He thrived as the ultimate indoor-outdoor cat.

When we left the animal hospital, we saw staff had made these compassionate gestures.

We knew it would come to an end someday, but when we woke up yesterday we didn’t imagine it would be that day. It’s all been so shockingly abrupt.

Time and again yesterday, Bridgett questioned why she was so devastated by Alvin’s passing. “He’s just a cat,” she kept declaring.

But like anyone else who has had a treasured pet, we both know that’s as incomplete as it’s inaccurate. He was our cat; and we were his people.