Henry James, Cat-Writer in Residence

All those who write of surviving grief tell you not to relive the events related to the death of the loved one.

Yet I am in that place. And somehow, writing of these events helps.

It is as though a large tooth were removed, painfully, slowly. And now my tongue goes to the empty space, feeling it, as if to miraculously reverse the tide.

We'd had a good day. Henry and I had our routine. I was reminded of our vet's comments, last chemo pill: "He's gained some weight! This is good!"

In the morning, we'd rise at about 6am. I would clean the kitchen, make the coffee, and get my journal books out. Henry would climb into the atrium window, looking out for cats and birds. Sometimes, he would go to the water spigot and heartily drink the fresh water.

I would get his meds out, and place the pills in order. Tiny pills, quart of a tablet. Budesonide for IBD, Fluro for heart, Ondanestan for nausea, a stool softener, and Mirataz for appetite which had to be placed inside the ear, with a gloved hand.

Henry had his wet food and dry food that day, Friday, August 15th. He ate and then returned to the kitchen to ask for more. This was our usual deal. And this was my opportunity to give him his meds. He sat on my lap, and put his left paw on my arm, taking the meds with understanding, and the reward of a few more dry kibbles. I gloved my hands then and finally gave him the Mirataz in the ear. He bounced off my lap then jumped up onto the table where I began my journaling for the day. He put his head down on the page and stretched out.

This was the beginning of a good day. Later, when I went into the bathroom, he followed me. I don't know why, but it was his habit to pee when I did, looking at me with that unblinking gaze.

When I went into the study he came too and sat behind me on the chair while I looked at emails.

His wee body was warm and felt good against my back.

I would get on with my day, and he with his, a day that now involved a lot of napping, in various places. But I would check in, between clients, and make sure he had more water and food.

Friday was a day just like this.

It had become the norm for F and myself to meet for "one-drink," after work, and we had selected Gelson's Market in Studio City, where I would have one sparkling Chandon Rose, and Frankie a glass of red, or white. We had come to know a lot of the regulars, and would watch a bit of Dodger ball, or yak with Keith the bartender. We saw our buddy Mark and talked about the Hollywood Bowl, and John Williams. Other guys came in, one with an old dog. We hung out for about 45 minutes and then I said, "Hey I have to get home to feed and med Hen."

I left and there was Henry, expecting me. He got a fresh dish with new food and more water, then he had his second heart pill, a probiotic and Senvelgo for his diabetes.

I made dinner for us, and Hen asked for more food, as he liked always to eat when we ate.

I went for a wee neighborhood walk after and Frankie cleaned up.

After a shower, I got in my jams, and settled into the leather couch as Frankie sat on the green sofa. Henry was in a corner by the green sofa, "Come on, Hen, " said Frankie, "Come up here."

And Henry jumped up on to the green sofa, settling into a ball of fur, tucking his head in, and napping, as we watched "Ballard."

The episode was really good, but afterward, Frankie left to go sit outside for a moment.

I said, "I'll stay here, " as I always remained with Henry, sometimes just sleeping on the couch all night. Henry would slumber on the green sofa just across from me.

I started watching Stanley Tucci in Italy and pretty promptly crashed.

I believe it was at least an hour later when I was awakened by Frankie, who said, "You fell asleep!" I said, "Aye."

Then he saw Henry on the floor next to the telly and exclaimed, "Oh no! Henry has wet himself."

I said, "Hey can I go to the bathroom first before you clean up?" He said, "Go ahead."

When I came out of the bathroom, I walked toward the kitchen.

Frankie was in the laundry room holding a towel.

"Feef," he said, "Henry is gone."

I remember I became quite hysterical screaming "oh no! My boy! My boy!" I couldn't stop. Frankie took Henry out to the Lanai. He said Henry was still warm. He was in a state of shock and didn't know if Henry had died or not.

He returned, alone, and said, "Yes, he is gone."

The time then was 11:45pm.

I said, "We have to get everything of Henry's out of here, and what we can, donate, put in a box.

I don't want to wake up and see his things." We flew into a flurry with big plastic black bags and got rid of everything, filling a box with unused food and medicine to give away.

"I will drive, " I said.

We made a solitary funeral procession down Colfax and right on Ventura Blvd to True Pet. The streets were empty and dark, and the emergency vets was empty.

Frankie went back with the technician who confirmed that Henry was gone.

We made the decision not to ask for his ashes. Henry was not that kind of guy. He was no nonsense and no fuss and he would not want us messing with him that way.

We donated good stuff, we paid and we left, empty, home, and had a whisky at 1am, toasting Henry James.

But I didn't sleep. I felt a well of burning tears. I went to the car and sobbed and wept and wailed loudly. I said, "God please help me. Please help me. I am on my knees." It was quiet and I felt like my entire body was bloodless and hollow. My heart felt tight and expectant and weary at the same time.

Later, we would speculate that Henry had had a very quick heart attack, and that he was warm, probably because he passed very quickly. I had known others who, when they passed, urinated.

Human beings too.

We said things like, "Well at least it was quick. We hope he did not suffer." And "That's Henry. He would do death his own way. He wouldn't have wanted to have been 'put down.'"

And it was true. Hen did things his way.

He wasn't cuddly. But he was in the picture. He was part of the pack. He looked at you very seriously. He asked for what he wanted. He didn't make a fuss. He knew the situation and he could deal.

Our vet said he was like a wise professor. He just got it. Never made a problem.

Six years ago, Henry had had his first brush with mortality. It was then that he developed pancreatitis, which led to diabetes. He was so ill and in such pain we had to inject him with morphine. Unbelievably, Henry made a full recovery from both diseases.

Dr Pavlina Burpee had helped us to save him.

For six years, he lived a great life. He traveled and stayed in hotels.

He bounced off walls and ran like a circus performer. He fetched balls.

He flirted with a couple of ferals.

He knew every inch of the house and spent time in every room.

He chewed my hair when he wanted attention, and he loved my father's hair too and did the same to him.

He slept in the bed every night, but at the foot of the bed.

He asked for food every morning. Actually, all the time!

He had his place and watched telly at night with us whenever we did. He ate when we did.

But most of all, he wrote great pieces he published on FB. Admittedly, I helped him a bit as his paws were not great on a keyboard.

He made many friends, online and off, and, aside from the stress of fireworks and workmen who made noise in the house, he lived an exciting but peaceful indoor life.

He had come from The Lange Foundation which is a no-kill shelter in West LA.

His former name was Periwinkle and he had a sister who had been adopted.

He was on a big wheel in a room circling, but he looked at me, and was saying, "Hey look at me. I'm cool. I'm the one you want."

He came to live with us eleven years ago on Super Bowl Sunday.

A Russian Blue mostly in breed. He did not shed.

He hid under a couch for a few hours, when he first arrived here, but it didn't take long for him to realize he was the only one, and he very much enjoyed owning our house, every room, every closet. And us.

He had many voices and many names too, for he was a playboy like Dean Martin, a solitary explorer like Han Solo and a fussy funny teenager, Teena.

I tell this story of his loss, because since he's not been around, time has slowed. I feel wretched.

My mind plays tricks on me. I think I see him, but it's a grey knapsack. I think I feel him behind me. I think I have to get home to take care of him.

But there is no one to feed and med.

Henry was sick really for about six months. He had to bear the recurrence of his IBD and pancreatitis, then diabetes, then lymphoma and finally a heart condition. It was perhaps the cumulative effect of all of these diseases that became too much for him. We did notice this decline when he began to lose weight even when he was eating heartily, at least two tins of food a day, in March 2025.

Cancer can do this. Cancer is violent and uncaring and greedy.

We saw the chlorambucile (chemo pill) limit the effect of the cancer. The vomiting stopped and so did the violent diarrhea. But in the end, his heart was not strong enough to bear prednilosone, the steroid that might have been more efficient in combo to stop the cancer, at least put a hold on it for a bi more time.

Henry had been a 16 pound cat. He was 9.6 pounds when he died.

The vet told us we would be fortunate if Henry had good quality of life in the very last months of his time, and he did. The drugs helped. He never did lose his agency. He was always able to jump up, to eat, to go to the loo, and to engage with us.

I very much believe that no one thought that Friday 11:30pm would be the time of Henry James' death. Not even Henry. Perhaps I will come to see this as a blessing. Death was quick. We were both here. We were able to deal with the situation. We did not have to take him to a place where we would end his life. It was, perhaps, as Henry would want it, that kind, no-nonsense guy who wasn't into a fuss.

It's just that his spirit and way brought a certain routinized calm and balance to my emotional mercurial and unbalanced self.

I will have to find my way without him.

One thought occurred, and this is that without loss I might not possibly understand love, empathy and faith. If Henry is in some sort of spiritual place, I will only be able to know this if I acknowledge a spiritual realm. And this, at the end of the day, may be all we really ever have.